


Homeward Bound

by sunstarunicorn



Series: It's a Magical Flashpoint [63]
Category: Chronicles of Narnia - C. S. Lewis, Flashpoint (TV), Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Merlin (TV)
Genre: Gen, Wilderness Survival
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-04
Updated: 2020-12-29
Packaged: 2021-03-10 04:21:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 25,109
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27878285
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunstarunicorn/pseuds/sunstarunicorn
Summary: In the Rocky Mountains of Colorado, a serial killer stalks his victims through the trees, hunting them the old-fashioned way, with bow and arrow.  As the latest victim runs for her life, victim and killer cross paths with one of the few predators even humans fear to cross.  A predator with the intelligence and strength to beat a serial killer at his own game – and the heart to save his victim.
Series: It's a Magical Flashpoint [63]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/538363
Comments: 58
Kudos: 6





	1. Welcome to the Rocky Mountains

**Author's Note:**

> This story is the sixty-third in the Magical Flashpoint series. It follows "When In Rome".
> 
> Although all original characters belong to me, I do not own _Flashpoint_ , _Harry Potter_ , _Narnia_ , or _Merlin_.
> 
> Also, on a totally self-plug side note - Welcome to the hundredth story I have posted on Archive of Our Own! Fanfiction.net has more, but that's 'cause of my older stories (most of which are on indefinite hiatus...).

The man ran through the woods, stumbling over rocks and branches, but determinedly forging on. He’d lost track of time _days_ ago and now sought simply to survive another hour, another few minutes. At first he’d hoped to find a road or a trail, _something_ that would let him escape, but there was nothing save miles of endless forest. Still, he ran. To give up was to die. He stole another look back and cried out as his feet caught under a tree limb in his path. Something whizzed over him, drawing a terrified wail. He struggled to rise, pain radiating from his ankle, but he couldn’t give up. Couldn’t die _here_ , miles from his family and civilization.

Yet even as the injured man made it back to his feet and started limping forward once more, two arrows found their mark, burying themselves in the man’s back. One arrow punched through, finding the victim’s heart. He fell, blood soaking his tattered, grimy clothing. For a few seconds, the man flailed, struggling against the inevitable. Then the limbs stilled, wide brown eyes glazed over, and the final breath hissed out.

From a ridge above, two brunets smirked at each other, the younger congratulating the older, though both brothers were disappointed by how quickly their victim had died. After a minute or two, they vanished back into the forest, well-pleased with their sport. The body and the arrows in its back were left where it had fallen, expression frozen in helpless plea.

A few miles away from the grisly scene, air crackled and expanded with a tiny _thump_ of displaced air. A tawny figure appeared, tumbling to the ground. A plaintive whine escaped; the impact had struck several patches of burned fur and blistered skin; but the animal lapsed back into unconsciousness, lying insensate for several hours.

* * * * *

The sun had risen high in the sky by the time the creature stirred. Paws and wings twitched, feathers ruffling ever so slightly. Fixed hazel eyes blinked open, then closed again with a tiny sigh. Without truly waking, the animal curled, wings folding before one side opened enough for the great head and beak to tuck underneath, the rich yellow hue of the beak flashing before it disappeared. Paws shifted close, the feathered tail lashed around to complete the large furry, feathery ball. The wings as well as the feathered head were a dark brown, save for a ring of feathers around the gryphon’s head that had turned gray, fading to white at the very top. Light fell on the wings, revealing a lighter shade of brown behind the leading edge and a few flight feathers on the outer edge of both wings that had turned a pale silvery hue. The tail feathers, likewise, were mostly the same dark brown of the head with two predominantly silver feathers on each side, forming a rough ‘V’ shape. The gryphon’s fur matched the lighter brown of the lower wings, changing to a tan hue on the chest and lightening even further to a pale cream on the underbelly.

Around the gryphon’s neck, there was a thick leather collar, inscribed with runes and fastened with an elaborate silver buckle that looked as though the ends had been fused together. Ancient Celtic symbols encircled a coat of arms, all but forgotten. The banner of the rowan tree, the tree red against a black background. Signifying both the binding on the gryphon and acting as warning to any who would tamper with the High Priestess’s vengeance. Oblivious, the gryphon slept on.

Not a soul spotted the sleeping animal.

* * * * *

It was not until the following morning that the animal stirred once more. Feathers fluffed, wings rustled, and the gryphon shifted, stretching stiff limbs and muscles as he clambered to his feet. A few contented noises escaped the gryphon’s beak and he glanced around, inspecting his surroundings. Wings spread and the animal’s stretch was very cat-like, the flexible spine crackling and popping as his back curled, tail arching up, then down. Tail feathers flared wide before flicking closed once more.

Partway through a turn, the gryphon froze, then collapsed down as memory surfaced. What…what had he _done_? And…and how had he gotten _here_ , wherever _here_ was. Hazel squeezed shut as the animal pummeled his memory. Fire, smoke, his foe lying in a spreading pool of blood. Reaching…reaching for his badge, intending to trigger its Portkey to escape. What had happened next?

Pain throbbed from the back of his head, eking a cringe from the gryphon. Achingly careful, he shifted to lie on his left side, lowering his head down so he could reach up with his right forefoot. One talon touched a lump, drawing a pained yelp. What was he _doing_? Without moving, he focused, reaching inwards.

A scream ripped through the forest, the cry a mix of bird and cat. Needles jabbed into him, searing pain racing along his limbs and making them tremble. Determination flared and he focused a second time, growling challenge as magic rose. Only to turn on him; he howled as acid flooded him, leaving every vein raw and throbbing. Again, his body shook, helpless against the magic’s wrath, and he nearly lost consciousness.

_No…I won’t…give up… I won’t…give up…_

A third time, he reached for the well of power within him, gripping it tight and forcing it to bend to his will. He felt it answer, felt his body quiver as the change began, then icy cold invaded, _twisting_ and streaking through his very _soul_. Agony like absolutely _nothing_ he had ever felt before engulfed him. He heard himself scream, felt himself writhe, then blackness beckoned and he slid into it gratefully.

* * * * *

The second – or was it the third? – time he woke up, his body…ached. As if he’d alternated between getting crushed by a wall and being stretched out on a rack. He felt like he’d been forcibly transformed about six times in a row. Slowly, with throbbing muscles and aching limbs, he struggled back to his feet. _Owww. Note to self: Don’t do that again._ He had a nasty feeling the source of that painful, alien magic was the collar around his neck, but it felt tight enough that he knew he was going to need help getting it off.

Well then. First things first. Limping forward a pace, Greg reached inwards. The collar tingled, drawing an involuntary flinch from the Animagus. Cautious, he tapped against his magic, mentally summoning the ‘team sense’. With any luck, he could find a road or something while his teammates were enroute and then he could start apologizing, with all his heart, for lying and pushing them away. For going lethal on Castor Troy and his sister. Regret thrummed, but… His family was _alive_. That was all that mattered any more.

_‘Eddie?’_

He paused, waiting for his team leader’s reply, but there was nothing.

_‘Eddie? Can you hear me?’_

Silence. That wasn’t right. Even if Ed was utterly livid with him, he was too good a friend and cop to ignore the ‘team sense’. Gingerly, Greg prodded at the power within him, switching to the older emotional communication. As he transmitted a silent plea for backup, the Sergeant ‘watched’ the link light up, cascading down the distance. Without warning, it simply vanished, as if the emotion had never been.

What? Alarmed, Greg silently demanded answers, tail swishing as he growled at his magic. If he was out of range, that was one thing – unfortunate, if unavoidable – but it hadn’t _felt_ like that. No, although his team was a significant distance away, he had the sense that he _should_ be able to communicate. As though his magic ordinarily regarded distance as a mere trifle, hardly worth any consideration. Mentally grimacing, Greg tried again, watching the magic as closely as he could get away with. Again it vanished into the ether partway to its destination, but Parker caught a flash of something right before it vanished. Instinct prickled and Greg tried yet again. Ignoring his own magic, he kept every sense on the collar, eyes narrow with suspicion in his head if not in fact. Prickly, ice cold power surged, cutting the connection.

Greg’s heart sank as logic, intuition, and instinct laid out the facts. The links were not _blocked_ , per se, just _muzzled_. He couldn’t hear his team and _they_ , in turn, couldn’t hear _him_. He could tell they were still alive and even _where_ they were in relation to himself – a _very_ long ways away – but he knew this aspect of the ‘team sense’ better than they. It was possible, no, _probable_ that they believed him dead. A sort of grief descended at the thought of his family mourning his death while he stood in the middle of this blasted forest, very much alive, if trapped in his Animagus form.

Determination stirred, joining with iron will and a stubborn streak that put Eddie’s to shame. He couldn’t transform, couldn’t communicate, and he was lost in the middle of a forest that felt like it was half a continent away from home. It would take weeks, if not _months_ to walk home. His team and his family believed he was dead; if something went wrong during his trek back to Toronto, they would never know. Even worse, he had no one to turn to and he could _not_ risk flying. To be seen would destroy the Statute of Secrecy, which nixed flying and meant that once he reached any sort of main road, he’d have to travel exclusively at night. Unless he happened upon a friendly wizard willing to help, he would have to _walk_ every meter of the way home. The odds of him making it… Well, he had no idea what they were, but they had to be incredibly _low_.

The gryphon’s head rose, hazel glowing with stubborn will. _I guess I’d better get started._

* * * * *

It was, however, not nearly so simple. The gryphon limped along, berating himself for being so _stubborn_ as to fight the collar’s magic not once, but three times. The retaliation had taken its toll, slowing his pace to a crawl and leaving most of his muscles twitching with residual pain. Even if he’d been _willing_ to fly, his wings were worse off than his legs; Greg was thankful he hadn’t _broken_ them. As if his physical woes weren’t bad enough, the gryphon soon became aware of a gnawing sensation in his stomach, helpfully reminding him that he hadn’t eaten since before his little last-man-standing, battle-to-the-death performance. Nor had he had anything to drink.

The latter, fortunately, was easy enough to deal with; he merely followed his beak to a nearby stream. Drinking was a bit awkward, though it helped that he had _some_ prior experience. The water soothed his throat, still irritated after he’d popped a smoke grenade and sat there while it hissed and filled the air around him. So great was the relief that Greg had to resist the urge to simply duck his head underwater and suck every last drop down. Instead, he crouched at the stream edge, posture very much like a cat as he dipped his beak, snatching a fresh gulp of water with every bob of his head. In between gulps, he lapped at the water. His wings remained folded and he carefully kept them from getting wet; he had no idea how he’d dry the feathers if they _did_ get wet.

It was as he was drinking his fill that a scent drifted to him, one that made his stomach churn and his protective instincts bristle. The unmistakable _stench_ of decomp. Somehow, he _knew_ it wasn’t a dead animal, though how his magic could tell the difference, he hadn’t a clue. It was downstream, close to the very same creek he was drinking from. He might’ve mentally shuddered if not for the fact that his magic was _convinced_ the water hadn’t been contaminated. Part of him wanted to ignore the dead body in the woods – the locals could worry about it and he had his _own_ problems to deal with – but he knew he wouldn’t. If he walked away, the what-ifs would plague him for the rest of his life.

With a mental sigh, he lifted his head and headed downstream in search of the body.

* * * * *

Partway down the stream, he made a new discovery. The ground beneath his talons was _rocky_. Far more rocky than the forests around Toronto…was he in the _mountains_? It would explain why he felt slightly short of breath. Cautious, he waded into the creek, huffing in relief when the cold water soothed both paws and talons. Massive wings fluttered, but they were well clear of the wet and besides, he was going to be walking for days. Best to do whatever he could to keep his feet in good condition. He wasn’t sure if walking in a stream would provide the same cushioning as a pool, but it was worth a try and might at least keep his feet from getting too sore. At least…that was the idea…

The further he went, the more evident it became that he was in the mountains. Rocks jutted out, the terrain around him angling downwards sharply, and, through a gap in the trees, he caught a glimpse of mountain ranges in the distance. Curiosity stirred and he abandoned the creek to pad towards the gap. When he stepped past the trees, his beak dropped open. Mountains rose around him, gray peaks with vast swaths of green forests and snowy patches higher up. Cliffs higher than any he’d ever seen before towered, some of them so sheer, it was a straight drop down, and others slanted or bulging out, perfect for mountain climbing. Above, the sky was a perfect shade of light blue, with a few puffy clouds drifting serenely in between the peaks. The sun beat down, warming fur and feathers, the heat a balm for aching muscles.

Below him, the range dropped down into a valley; he could see rivers and lakes, all of them with crystal blue water. Scanning the ridges and peaks, he saw more. Waterfalls that ran almost white, a group of bears trundling through the forest on the opposite ridge. Birds calling to each other and flitting through the wind. Trees moved in the breeze, their branches creaking every so often; the variety he could see was incredible. Evergreens, aspens, birch trees, and those were just the ones he could identify. Fields of wildflowers, dotted with color and packed with greenery growing taller than he stood. For a moment, the Sergeant felt very small. What were cities compared to this untamed, wild country? What skyscraper could match even _one_ of these mountains?

Cautious, he backed away, wary of being spotted by any hikers or climbers. He couldn’t count on distance being enough to protect the Statute. Turning, the gryphon headed back into the trees, retracing his steps to the creek; he needed to find this body, just to settle himself, then he could resume his trek towards Toronto. Without hesitation, he splashed back into the water and made his way downstream, grimacing as the _reek_ of decomp increased. What joy was his, especially since his Animagus form had a lion’s keen sense of smell. Thank _Aslan_ that hadn’t translated over to his human side. Yet.

When he found the body, he eyed it from a distance for several moments. Murder – _one_ arrow could be passed off as an unfortunate accident, but not two. Wary, the big animal approached, absently grateful that no predators had gotten to the victim yet. The man lay face down, a small mercy given how _eerie_ open, staring eyes tended to be. Even when he’d been in Homicide, he’d never gotten used to it. The clothing looked…grubby. As if the victim had spent a few nights in the woods before his murder. Greg frowned to himself, pacing past the body. Hmmm… The ankle looked wrong, as if the man had turned it not long before dying. Why? Had he been running from something? Did he _know_ his murderer? Possible. The gryphon turned, then stilled as he spied fletching. Bounding away, Greg reached the tree in seconds. Yes… _another_ arrow. But why? Surely the first two arrows had been enough…

Another theory presented itself for consideration. Thoughtful, the Sergeant turned back to the body and headed past it, in the direction the victim had been coming from. He didn’t have to look far, just a meter or so past the body, he found a fallen tree limb at just the right height above the ground to act as a trip. He could almost see it, the man looking back instead of ahead, his foot sliding under the branch, then the body flying headlong as the motion of running caught one, perhaps even both legs up in the branch. Hmmmm… If the murderer had fired his arrow at that _precise_ moment, his target would’ve disappeared, leaving the arrow to fly right into a tree trunk. An acceptable theory, though it put him no closer to solving the crime. Not that he could anyway. The image of himself – in his gryphon form – with a badge and reporting to his superiors on what he’d found at the crime scene drew a snort. He was wasting time…time he could be spending heading home.

And yet… He turned, regarding the victim. This man deserved justice, deserved to have _somebody_ care about what had happened to him. Feathery, furry ears flattened unhappily; there was nothing he could do. He could track, after a fashion, but if the murderer’s trail went straight back to a main road, he couldn’t follow. Couldn’t report the crime or what he’d found. Discouragement trickled in…what good was he without his human form? Sure his gryphon side _looked_ impressive, but what good was it? Good for killing and fighting, that was it. Savage, wild, and unpredictable…that was his gryphon side to a ‘T’.

Wings and tail sagged as the transformed, trapped Sergeant turned away from the murder victim in the middle of a mountain forest. Sorrowful, he trudged away, shame and discouragement mixing within him. Useless, that’s what he was. Couldn’t even help a _dead_ man. His stomach grumbled and he pushed the gnawing away. He didn’t _deserve_ anything to eat.


	2. Cry in the Night

Time passed; Greg wasn’t sure how much, only that when he looked up from his pity party he saw the sun going down. His stomach wailed protest, its demand for _food_ rising to a shrill pitch. The Sergeant cocked his head, trying to calculate how long he’d gone without, then winced as his belly made it clear it didn’t _care_ how long it had been, it just wanted _food_. Grumbling, the gryphon looked around, unsure of where to start. He’d never gone camping as a kid and besides, campers usually brought their own food rather than _hunting_ for it. What did gryphons eat anyway? Meat, yes, but was it more on the lion side or did the eagle rule that roost? Cocking his head the other way, Greg prodded at his magic and gryphon instincts. Not much help there…his instincts apparently believed in whatever was easiest to catch. Pragmatic, but not much help for a city boy used to hunting down his meat in the nearby grocery store.

Sighing, Greg tilted his beak up, sniffing the air. Water…fish, perhaps? If he could _fish_ , that might be easier than hunting for a deer or whatever wildlife lived in this forest. With a faint idea, the gryphon made his way towards the water, hoping it was a decent-sized river. He hadn’t seen any fish in the creek he’d been wading in earlier.

* * * * *

Well… The good news was that it was a river, just like he’d hoped. Now what was he supposed to do? Whining, he regarded the water, searching for any signs of fish in the shallows. His wings flicked out, then closed, frustration seething. He couldn’t risk flying, couldn’t risk being _seen_ , but eagles _flew_ to catch fish – he did know that much.

Greg paused, spying a tiny splash – a fish? Hazel focused in…yes, yes it was. Hunger screamed, overriding caution; the gryphon sprang, landing in the water with a hiss. Talons lashed out, but closed on nothing as the fish fled. He snatched at the water for several more moments before slumping. Sorrowful, he swam back to shore and clambered out; wings spread and then he shook violently, water flying from both fur and feathers. Unhappy, he turned his head, slumping even more when he realized he’d have to dry off and preen before he could fly. So much for an easy meal of fish…

* * * * *

Scrounging through the forest netted him a few berry bushes – despite his carnivore nature, he savaged the fruits, desperate for _something_ to fill his belly. The food went down, but gurgled unpleasantly; gryphons, it seemed, were _not_ omnivores, even when they were Animagi. Bother.

Though the sun’s light was almost gone, Greg kept searching, switching his focus to the small animals he could hear in the trees and on the ground. Even if they weren’t much of a meal, he was hungry enough to try. Trouble was, he was half-eagle and half-lion…and _not_ the mountain lion type. Even if he could figure out how to hunt, he wasn’t suited to this environment. But dying of starvation did _not_ appeal, so he had to figure _something_ out.

A rustling came from nearby; he froze, training all his senses on it. Then he whipped around and pounced, talons unsheathed. Only to slump down in disappointment as the rabbit scurried away, terrified, but unscathed.

* * * * *

Parker kept trying, scavenging throughout the night, ignoring his poor night vision and lack of experience. Surely if he kept trying, he’d find _something_. But for all his efforts, not a single animal fell to his claws. He was never, _ever_ going to look down his nose at hunters again…how did they _do_ this?

Close to sunrise, he stumbled onto a deer hidden behind a boulder and partially buried. The sound of soft mewlings stilled him just as he was about to drag the deer free. Despite his stomach’s wails for food, he couldn’t bring himself to steal from hungry kittens. Surviving in the wild was hard enough without an ungrateful able-bodied thief coming along. Guiltily, he crept away, leaving the deer where it was.

Before he could reach the edge of the small clearing, he heard another mewl and looked down. A small cub, no taller than his foreleg, darted out of hiding and growled at him, plainly imitating its mother’s response to unwelcome guests. Amusement stirred, his own instincts regarding the cub as more of an annoyance than anything else. Glancing about, he spied the den being used and turned back to the cub. Reaching down, he plucked the cub off the ground, lifting it by the nape of its neck with his beak. Part of him worried he’d hurt the little one, but the cub merely curled up, just like a young kitten. Greg carried the cub to its den and let it down, gently pushing it inside to relative safety. It went, only to turn around and growl again. Huffing a gryphon chuckle, the Sergeant left, unaware of the mother mountain lion watching from the trees.

* * * * *

Had the mother mountain lion been capable of human thought, she would have been quite astounded. She’d heard her kits’ cries and hurried back, dreading the worst. A male, killing her young so _he_ could father her next litter, or perhaps a rival female hoping to claim her territory. Instead, she’d arrived to see an animal she’d never seen before, reluctantly backing away from the deer she’d killed the previous night. To her disbelief, the animal hadn’t stolen the meat, instead turning to leave the clearing that hid her den. The wind carried his scent to her, smelling of fire and _humans_. When her most adventurous cub had confronted the intruder, she’d waited for the inevitable. Instead, the strange animal had carried her cub back to her den and continued on his way without laying claw or fang on her young.

She growled, letting out a yowl that left her cubs in _no_ doubt that they were to _stay put_ and _not_ come out again. Then she turned and followed after the strange animal, watching his progress closely from the trees. He was trying to hunt, but her young cubs could hunt better than the blundering idiot crashing through the forest and scaring all the game away. He knew it, too; she could see his frustration and bewilderment, even from a safe distance. It made his actions all the more unexpected – an animal who could not _hunt_ and yet he’d left her kill where it was. She didn’t understand.

As he clattered through another clearing, she loped ahead of him and dropped down, hissing to get his attention. He stilled, studying her with something like trepidation. The mountain lion lowered, deliberately stalking around him; he turned to follow her movements, wariness growing. Then she gave a small yowl and stalked away, turning her head to glance over her shoulder at the edge of the clearing. The strange animal eyed her, staying stock-still. She growled imperiously, beckoning him to follow. At length, he paced forward, but not in a crouch. Immediately, she stalked back to him, snarling and butting his chest in disapproval. He backed up, tail lashing and confusion plain. Crouching, she paced past him again to the clearing’s edge. For a moment, he glanced from her to the middle of the clearing and back again. Then he crouched, stalking after her; she rumbled approval.

* * * * *

Huh…talk about unreal. A mother mountain lion taking time out of caring for her young to teach some strange gryphon how to hunt. At least, that’s what Greg _assumed_ the wild animal was doing. He did his best to imitate her, though his wings prevented him from moving as silently as she did – perhaps most gryphons hunted from the sky, like eagles. She seemed to understand, only ‘insisting’ on him crouching and padding as quietly as possible. Quite persistent for a ‘dumb’ animal. When she went up a tree, he blanched, then did his best to follow, digging talons and hind paws into the tree bark.

Once in the trees, his guide picked up speed, though her movements remained quiet. The gryphon struggled to keep up without raising a hue and cry. Her route took them in the opposite direction of Toronto, but he kept his beak shut. She didn’t know and he’d never make it home if he starved to death halfway there. Instead, he followed close as she guided him to a herd of deer. Once the herd was in sight, her pace slowed to a stalk. Not a paw was put out of place and not a sound was made. He tried to imitate her, struggling to keep his talons from scraping the bark of the tree he was on. Slowly, slowly, the two predators approached a young deer grazing on the edge of the herd. As their movements brought them right above the animal, Greg froze. His first inclination was to drop right on the deer’s back and dig in, but he suspected that was the _wrong_ way to go about it.

A beat later, the female dropped out of the tree, landing near, but not _on_ , the young buck. In one smooth motion, she lunged, latching on with her claws as she went for the neck. The deer went wild, thrashing, screeching, and bucking, but all to no avail. The mountain lion’s front paws kept her prey in place and even let her wrench the deer sideways to gain better access to the vulnerable neck. She bit down; above her, Greg cringed, the crack of the animal’s spinal cord audible. After a few more seconds, the animal ceased to thrash.

* * * * *

The mountain lion released her prey and stepped back, turning to glance up at her student. The strange animal dropped from its hiding place, landing next to her to regard the deer. She turned to him and gently licked his neck in thanks for not harming her cubs, then melted back into the forest to return to them. She had given him both a lesson and a meal – he was on his own now.

* * * * *

Greg gazed after the mountain lion, understanding a wry burn under his fur. On his own again. Then he turned to the deer, swallowing hard. He wasn’t about to turn down the generous gift, but eating raw meat… Eeugh… His human side shuddered even as his gryphon side salivated, eager for the food right under his beak. Grimacing, the Sergeant crouched and began to eat, using his claws to tear the meat into smaller beak-sized bites.

At first, his human side dominated, still horrified by the raw meat and the whole predator-prey…deal. But as he continued his meal, his gryphon side roared to the fore, fairly delighting in the feast before him. Instead of being distasteful and nearly impossible to swallow, the meat was delicious. The bites grew more sure; rather than cautiously slicing bite-sized pieces with his talons, the gryphon seized a chunk, snapping his head sideways to tear off a beakful, then tossed his head up to swallow it down. Talons dug in, pulling the juicier bits closer; in the back of his mind, he let his human side slip away.

* * * * *

He ‘woke’ to find himself gnawing on one of the last few bones left from the deer; the rest of the carcass was gone and his stomach felt comfortably full. For a moment, nausea churned, then his gryphon instincts overrode his human ones, rumbling with pleasure at the meal he’d just enjoyed. Greg tried to fight it, but the instincts were just too strong; rather than horror, Parker found himself with a keen desire to go hunting and catch the _next_ deer himself. Or perhaps he could go fishing – with his wings this time.

It took a minute to fight through the gryphon instinct haze and remind his wild side that living in the mountains of whatever country he was currently in was _not_ the plan. The _plan_ was to go _home_ , grovel at his family’s feet, and hopefully get back to being _human_. For a few seconds, it was a battle of wills, then his gryphon half receded, though it insisted on keeping control of the meal side of the equation. Huffing internally, Greg opted to focus on more important issues. Like the grime all over his fur and feathers.

Parker pushed himself up and headed into the woods, angling for the lake he’d found the prior evening. When he reached the water, he dove in and splashed around, wings flapping and beak busy with grooming the fur on his chest. The gryphon headed back to shore, hauling himself up to shake the water out. Instincts purred and he turned, jumping back into the lake. Instead of flapping around, he swam further out and ducked beneath the surface, hauling his entire bulk underwater. When he surfaced, he was wet right down to his tail feathers; part of him was a bit fearful of sinking, but he had no trouble swimming back out of the water. In fact, his wings even helped, adding a ‘breast stroke’ motion to the lion paddle he had going with paws and talons.

Once on shore again, he shook as much water out of his fur and feathers as possible, then sat down to preen his feathers. He wanted to get going, but neglecting anything that could help him get home wasn’t the best plan. So instead of blazing towards Toronto at top speed, Greg forced himself to stay put and ensure every last feather was in its place.

* * * * *

As the day wore on towards the evening, Greg wound his way through the forest, following his invisible ties to his faraway team. Given his difficulties hunting, it would be best to cover as much ground as he could before his stomach started complaining again. The gryphon did his best to move both quickly and silently, attempting to practice the stealth he’d need for his next hunt. Or maybe he could fish instead; it would undoubtedly take more fish to fill his belly as opposed to one deer, but Parker figured the time investment would be about the same, especially if he let his gryphon half handle the actual hunting.

By the time the sun went down, he was starting to stumble. When one stumble nearly resulted in a tumble down a small cliff, Greg gave up and found some bushes to curl up in, using the greenery to hide his _unique_ looks from any nighttime hikers. The gryphon curled as tight as he could, tucking his head under one wing before going to sleep.

* * * * *

The next morning, the Sergeant started off, his pace much slower as he prowled through the underbrush, searching for either a handy source of fish or an equally handy deer. He refused to backtrack, maintaining a stalemate with his hunger until he caught the scent of water. He followed his beak, deciding the risk that all he’d find was a creek was worth sating his thirst. Instead of a lake or stream, he found a fast running river. About to back away, furry, feathery ears pricked, catching the sound of jumping fish. A few careful leaps put him _right_ at the spot in the river that the fish – either salmon or trout – were attempting to jump. Rather than spending hours trying to hunt down his next meal, all Greg had to do was sit, wait, and snap the fish up in his beak. Even better, while the taste was different from the deer he’d dined on, the meat was just as good, filling his stomach with minimal effort.

He was gnawing on one last fish when he heard a cry. Not animal – _human_. In an instant, he was on his feet, ears forward, and his body angled towards the sound. He paused long enough to finish his dessert, then headed for the sound, ignoring the fact that it was taking him in a different direction than Toronto. To walk away – he couldn’t do it any more than he could’ve ignored the stench of decomp.

* * * * *

For over a day, Greg cut through the forest towards that human cry, concern growing with each passing kilometer. While his trek had started with _one_ cry, he’d soon picked up more, each of them plaintive and seeming to _beg_ for help. He couldn’t turn his back, he just couldn’t. He continued to hunt, but contented himself with whatever he could catch the fastest, learning to live with an empty stomach – gryphons, like most predators, had a faster metabolism than humans and also needed a great deal more food. Parker pushed the gnawing aside, resisting the urge to move faster.

With one murder victim already behind him, the Sergeant couldn’t help but suspect he might have another ‘predator’ to deal with…this one a _human_ predator. He had no _proof_ , but there was _something_ about the way the man he’d found had just been…left. No attempt at a burial, no attempt to retrieve any of the arrows – it had been as if the victim was just a toy, to be played with before being abandoned in the woods because he was ‘broken’. He hadn’t been able to help the poor man, but maybe…maybe he could help another would-be victim. Put his talons and claws to good use. It was something to strive for at any rate.


	3. Hunting Without a License

Partway through the morning on the day after hearing the human cry, Greg’s insatiable hunger reared its head once more, forcing a halt long enough to find something more substantial than rabbits or squirrels. Parker chafed at the delay – why was he so hungry all of a sudden? He didn’t remember getting _this_ hungry the first time he’d been trapped in his Animagus form. Why did it feel like he was starving when he _knew_ he’d gorged himself on those fish several kilometers and most of a day back. Was it the collar? Trying to make him so hungry, so often, that he forgot about being human?

Well, it _wasn’t_ going to work; Greg was _determined_ to power through and keep moving. Unfortunately, he couldn’t seem to convince his _stomach_ ; it rumbled and grumbled, loudly demanding food, _immediately_. Huffing in frustration, Greg went hunting for a handy stream, hoping to find more jumping fish. Partway there, he stumbled onto a herd of elk. The herd spotted him at roughly the same moment _he_ saw _them_. Most of the animals fled, while the remainder advanced, grunting, bellowing, and kicking at him. Wings tucked close, the gryphon hunching in on himself as he let out a conciliatory whine and backed away.

To the Sergeant’s alarm, the elk continued to advance, as though they took his presence personally. The gryphon yowled, hiss-snarling in an attempt to remind the prey animals that he _was_ still a dangerous predator. Not a single one of his opponents fled; the lead elk grunted, the sound almost angry. As if it wanted revenge for some imagined slight or wrong, as crazy as that idea was; these were _animals_ , not humans.

Running would be good. Trouble was, though Greg had gotten used to _walking_ through the mountainous terrain around him, he wasn’t confident enough to _run_. Not yet. Which really left him with just one option. Greg crouched even further, then sprang upwards, wings flaring wide before slamming downwards, hauling the gryphon up into a handy tree. Greg latched onto a thick branch, clinging with all his might as adrenaline and panic pulsed. Beneath him, the elk scattered, suddenly not nearly so sure of antagonizing the big predator. The lone exception was the leader; furious, outraged grunts rose and Parker heard her paw the ground.

_Creak._

Greg froze, clinging even tighter to the branch. The wood bent, creaking louder. His mind screamed at him to _move_ , but he couldn’t make his talons uncurl. The branch swayed lower, another _creak_ escaping the straining limb, then gave with a thunderous _crack_. A gryphon shriek rang out as the branch fell, plummeting down onto the stubborn elk. The Animagus found himself a safe distance away, wings still half-spread from his panicked leap backwards off the doomed branch.

Panting, he regarded the dead elk, wincing when his stomach growled insistently. Well…it certainly hadn’t been the _best_ way to hunt, but at least he had a meal now… With an internal sigh, the gryphon advanced, hefted the branch off the elk, and dug in. He soon discovered that elk were not only larger than deer, but their meat was even tastier than fish and far more filling.

* * * * *

Although his gryphon side seemed convinced that a nap was _just_ the thing after a meal, Greg fought through the urge and moved out as soon as he’d eaten every last bit of meat – and most of the bones **(1).** Not long after he’d started eating, a bear had attempted to intrude and steal his meal; a roar-screech of displeasure, coupled with tenting **(2)** his wings, convinced the would-be thief to seek its next meal elsewhere. Parker pushed aside the faint smugness radiating from his wild side – the gryphon was pleased to have preserved the, ah, _distinctions_ of rank in the food chain, so to speak.

Instead the officer focused on the task before him. Namely, finding the unknown, possibly endangered human. Although he hadn’t heard the human cry in several hours, the Sergeant maintained his hope that he could help the possible victim, rather than stumble on another murder scene. Accordingly, he forged his way through the forest until, partway through the afternoon, the gryphon stumbled on a road. It was a dirt road, but well-maintained; the surface was packed down hard, enough to support a variety of traffic, and curved, so that water would run off the road and into gravel ditches on either side. Studying the design, Greg acknowledged the genius of it; so long as water did not _stand_ on the road, it was less likely to create soft spots, potholes, and generally wreck havoc on the dirt road’s usability.

Not far from the stand of trees where he’d emerged, Parker spied a battered old pickup truck. Beneath its coat of road dust, the red vehicle looked sturdy and well-maintained. Curiosity and a niggle of instinct drew Greg towards the truck, though he cast a wary look about for observers before leaving the tree cover. Rearing up next to the truck bed, he braced his foretalons on the metal and peered inside. Muscles stiffened and his tail lashed in agitation. Quivers, packed full of arrows, as well as what looked like bow carry cases. There was other hunting equipment, but the _archery_ … A low hiss-growl escaped; the fletching on the arrows looked very much like the arrows he’d found buried in the murder victim.

Before the Sergeant could investigate further, he heard a voice cry out; his head snapped around. It was the _same_ human cry he’d been tracking for the past day and a half. Talons tightened, wings surged, and the gryphon launched upwards, disappearing into the trees in less than a second. Once back in the trees, Greg let his human side ease back, trusting in the gryphon’s instincts to leap from branch to branch, remaining concealed even as he made his way towards the nearby human.

Despite being more of an aerial hunter, the gryphon was no stranger to using its lion half to best advantage, effortlessly working its way towards the source of the cry. Another sound drew him to a halt, peering downwards; Parker’s spirits lifted when he finally caught sight of his quarry. A young woman, late twenties or early thirties, with dark blonde hair. She appeared to be in decent shape and at least vaguely familiar with how to move in a woodlands setting, though her fear and panic was overriding some of that good sense. Definitely not fear of him…she didn’t even know he _existed_. Her clothing, a green polo and jeans, looked somewhat grubby, just as the murder victim’s had. She’d been running for awhile. But who was she running _from_?

Greg kept pace, the trees around them thick and sturdy enough to allow the gryphon to leap between branches without fear of breaking them. Frustration licked at him; if he’d been able to _communicate_ , he would’ve had no qualms about dropping down and whisking the girl away to a safe location before asking her what the heck was going on. Unfortunately, _that_ would require the collar to be gone, because he couldn’t speak in his gryphon form.

Busy fuming, he almost missed the gap in the trees and was forced to skid to a halt, a tiny squawk of alarm escaping as he aborted a leap at the last second and clung to his current branch, talons digging in. Below him, he saw a campsite with four humans and felt his blood run cold. ‘His’ human stumbled through, crying out in relief; no doubt, she thought her ordeal was over, but Greg’s cop instincts were screaming.

“Please,” the woman cried, “Help me!”

The campsite’s occupants closed around her, their concern and willingness to help radiating. Two men, two women. All four sported wedding rings and they looked to be about the same age as ‘his’ human. Greg stole a moment to study the campsite, unsurprised to see two tents. Two couples, out in the mountains for their vacation and not bothering a soul. Dread rose; the vacation was about to go horribly wrong.

Even as he thought it, an arrow flew out of the woods, impacting one of the women; a second arrow hit the man next to her as the first screams rang out. The victims collapsed, already dead, and the survivors fled, screaming as they raced into the woods. Above, in the trees, the gryphon held his position, fury a comfortable burn under his fur. Hazel seemed to narrow as he crouched, waiting and listening to the forest around him. The arrows had come from _behind_ ‘his’ human, therefore, to go after the three survivors, the killer would _have_ to pass through his general position. If they detoured through the forest, he’d hear them, but if they came to the _campsite_ , he would _see_ them.

Footsteps. Walking, not running; no panic, not from _this_ person. Only…it sounded like _more_ than one person. A low rumble rattled Greg’s chest and he turned his head towards the sound, furry, feathery eats flicking forward to listen. When two men arrived in the clearing, the gryphon jerked in surprise. They both looked…so young. Far too young to be accomplished killers. But they carried bows and Greg could see their quivers, just over their shoulders, packed full of arrows. More, they weren’t at all surprised by the two dead victims in the campsite – the emotion on their faces was _glee_.

Neither one looked up, so the Sergeant was free to watch as they went about their business. Outrage stirred as they ripped their arrows out of the bodies, more concerned about damage to the arrowheads than the killing. He ducked down, pressing himself against his sheltering branches when one of the men climbed up a tree right by one of the tents. But the brunet never glanced in his direction. Instead he strung a rope around a sturdy branch, lowering it to his brother; the other brunet tied the female victim’s ankles together, then attached the rope, allowing the tree-bound brother to hoist the body into the air. Greg kept himself absolutely still as the body was hefted up until it dangled a good two meters or more above the ground. Not so much as a feather twitched while the killers did the same to the other body, then he watched the men move to the edge of the camp, smirking to each other as they regarded the survivors’ tracks.

How _dare_ they? How _dare_ they treat fellow humans like _prey_ , hunting them for no more than _sport_? In that moment, Greg _knew_ what he’d stumbled on. A serial killer duo’s hunting ground. Much like the serial killer who’d stalked Toronto’s streets, treating the homeless like his own personal _entertainment_ , so these two lived out their live-action hunting fantasy, with _real_ victims as their targets. And just like Toronto’s serial killer, they wouldn’t stop until they were _caught_. There was, Parker realized, no way to know how many they’d _already_ murdered, but he vowed the campsite couple would be their _last_. No more, not on _his_ watch. However…

If he attacked them _now_ , they might wriggle out of trouble once local law enforcement came calling. They’d removed their arrows, so it was conceivable that they could spin a tale of coming across a violent predator who’d taken to hunting humans, surviving by the skin of their teeth when said predator turned on _them_. No, he had to wait, had to _follow_ them. They were already going after the three survivors; if he waited until they caught up, then he could catch them in the act. Strike before they could kill their next victim. A risk, particularly if he was a hair too slow, but unfortunately it was his best option.

Trembling with gryphon rage, Greg felt his chest rumble, a subvocal growl escaping. He _wanted_ to strike _now_ , before anyone else was endangered, but he had to do this right. He had to do this like a _cop_ , not a gryphon or an Italian mob boss. He’d killed like a predator once and the shame would linger for the rest of his life. Not again, _never_ again. Determination steadied his limbs, lent new grace to his first bound after the killers. Time to show these headhunters what a _real_ hunt looked like.

* * * * *

In truth, the trees of North America were ill-suited to being used as a jungle gym by a large, heavy cat-bird. Nevertheless, as the gryphon bounded between branches, doing his best to imitate a squirrel, the trees bravely held their ground, their branches only swaying a bit under the weight that leapt between them.

Below, the two headhunting brothers were far too focused on their hunt to notice the swaying and creaking of the branches above – or that there wasn’t _nearly_ enough wind to make the trees bounce so _violently_ , one branch at a time. So it was that the three traveled for quite some time, the brothers oblivious to the chafing fury of their mythical observer.

* * * * *

They were catching up. Despite being several meters above his quarry, Greg was _still_ an experienced negotiator, profiler, and possessed of a gryphon’s keen sense of vision; he could read their behavior without even a pause in his leaps. Thankfully, neither of the two ‘hunters’ possessed even the faintest gleam of magic. Contending with magic-users, even of the Squib-born variety, while stuck in his gryphon form did _not_ appeal. Regretfully, that meant he would be flagrantly breaking the Statute of Secrecy once he made his move, but saving lives was more important.

* * * * *

_One thing he’d taken with him on his trip into undercover exile was the diary Commander Locksley had given him on the day he’d almost been suspended. Over the days and weeks that followed, he read the ancient book from cover to cover, lingering not, as some might have expected, on the tale of his forebearers, but on Godric Gryffindor’s many regrets regarding the loss of his friendship with Salazar Slytherin._

_Secrets, kept on both sides, had been their downfall. Secrets kept between them and secrets kept between the other two Hogwarts’ founders. In the end, those secrets had destroyed them, all of them, by making trust impossible. Disagreements that could have,_ should _have, been worked through became insurmountable barriers between the friends. Worse, the feuds had ensured that the unity Hogwarts sought to foster was poisoned at its core, dooming British magical society to always see their classmates as either_ with _their house or_ against _their house._

_The story had been a sobering one, forcing him to realize that secrets, no matter how well intentioned, always came out at the worst possible times unless they were faced, confronted, and dealt with in a reasonable amount of time. It wasn’t quite so black and white as that; Greg could readily acknowledge that there_ were _secrets that had to remain so for one excellent reason or another, but…_

_He’d had no right to keep the secret of what the links were doing to his friends. Shameful as it was, it wasn’t_ his _secret to keep, not when it so directly affected those he cared about. They_ should _know what kind of situation they were in, the situation that a thousand decisions had created. But he couldn’t tell them, not until his undercover assignment was over. Because, much as he dreaded it, they also had the right to scream at him for what his magic had done to them. For what_ he _had done to them. To tell them while he was stuck undercover meant denying them that right._

* * * * *

Greg shook the memory away, focusing once more on his prey. They were slowing, yet the eagerness was written all over their faces. The hunt, it seemed, was drawing to its climax, though the Sergeant meant to change the course of the tale. Add an _appropriate_ twist.

The gryphon looked up; for the first time, he scanned through the trees ahead for the three humans who’d run from the campsite. Sadly, they, too, had no magic, but they couldn’t hide from a _gryphon’s_ eyesight. Not for long. _There._ Parker shifted, realization sparking. The field ahead. Once the ‘hunters’ reached it, they would have clear lines of sight to their victims. One or more of the ‘prey’ would not leave the field alive…unless _he_ intervened.

Seconds later, the killers arrived at the edge of the large clearing and one of them lifted his bow, reaching behind to pull an arrow from his quiver. A quick bound put Greg right above the young man and he spared one moment to brace himself for combat.

The brunet notched the arrow, sighting down the razor head.

Parker yowled and dropped.

Wings flared outwards a breath before he struck, lessening the weight that fell on the serial killer. Lion paws slammed the man’s back, talons closing around the bow with a gryphon’s might. Then Greg was down; he whirled with a snarl towards the second killer. The man fumbled for an arrow, scrambling backwards, to no avail. The gryphon pushed off, leaping across the distance to ram his shoulder into the taller brother’s chest. The impact sent him hurtling into a handy tree, a dull _thud_ announcing the actual strike. Soundlessly, the man collapsed to the ground, bow falling out of his hands. Parker wasted no time smashing it to pieces, then turned towards his first target. Tense muscles relaxed; both men were unconscious, their weapons destroyed.

_Situation contained._ Satisfaction flowed, only to freeze as a fresh realization dawned. He had no handcuffs or flex cuffs. And even if he _did_ , he was lacking another necessary requirement to _arrest_ the serial killers.

Hands.

[1] Yes, surprising as it may be, an eagle can and will eat the bones of its prey; the bones provide essential nutrients in an eagle’s diet.

[2] Tenting is when a bird partially opens its wings. Eagles use this to protect their food.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In a follow up to the footnote on tenting, I admit that I've only seen it used on one site and further attempts to find more info didn't net me much. However, here's what I've managed to piece together.
> 
> When an eagle (or any bird of prey) acts to protect their catch, they usually use a technique called 'mantling'. They will completely spread their wings and hunch over their meal to hide it from the competition. Tenting, by contrast, consists of a partial spread of the wings. I'm not sure, but it may be more of a dominance defense (kinda like 'my Dad is bigger than your Dad'). It might also be for meals that are too big to hide; while eagles will hunt, they've very pragmatic and won't hesitate to take advantage of someone else's catch (such as a seal or a deer).
> 
> Also, this is the first time that I learned that Hollywood has _totally_ gipped bald eagles! The classic eagle screech? It's a _red-tailed hawk!_ Seriously, talk about false advertising…


	4. A Mountain Lion With Wings

Under ordinary circumstances, Greg never would’ve considered asking civilians to assist in a takedown of any sort or demand that a serial killer’s would-be victims help with an arrest, but desperate times oft engendered desperate measures. Accordingly, the gryphon ensured both men were unconscious – a sharp, swift blow to their heads – and then went after the terrified survivors.

In the time it had taken the gryphon to subdue the subjects, the two women and one man had reached the opposite side of the clearing and vanished back into the woods. In the process, they had splashed through a small stream running through the clearing, making it even easier to track the trio. Greg kept low as he loped after them, soundless in spite of the mismatch between paws and talons. Once in the forest, the gryphon detoured, relying on his speed and estimation of the trio’s route to get ahead of them. Getting ahead was easy, though it took a minute or two before he managed to corner the terrified humans.

The women screamed and the man thrust himself in front, terrified, but determined. Shame and guilt lapped at the Sergeant, but he forced it aside. With a rumble, the gryphon paced forward, refusing to flinch at the anxious shrieks from the humans. They tried to run, darting sideways through the trees in an attempt to escape their unexpected pursuer; Greg cut them off, snarl-hissing his displeasure, though he wasn’t at all surprised that they kept trying. As far as _they_ were concerned, they were caught between a predator and two serial killers. He would’ve been shocked if they _hadn’t_ tried to run.

Minutes ticked by as the Animagus herded the three humans back towards the unconscious subjects. Part of Greg fretted that the serial killers would wake up, but he’d crushed their bows and he hadn’t seen any guns during his brief inspection of their unconscious forms. If they tried to attack their victims, he could deal with it. On the other hand, if they tried to _run_ , his predator side was _delighted_ at the idea that he’d have to hunt them down. As his thoughts wandered, one of the females darted forward, aiming a kick in his direction. The gryphon leapt sideways, though not enough to give any of the humans an opening to escape. He growl-scree-ed warning, fixing them with a stern hazel gaze.

Trembling, the three huddled together, refusing to move any further backwards. For a moment, Greg hesitated, reluctant to frighten them further, but he _needed_ their help. He couldn’t restrain the subjects _on his own_. So the transformed officer crouched, bared his fangs, and stalked forward, his posture and movements deliberate. Terror locked the humans in place, all of them instinctively reacting to his actions. Shame burbled – they were afraid of him just like _Wordy_ had been. Raw, primal instinct.

He stopped; he was _terrorizing_ them, just like the subjects had. Even if he meant it to _help_ them, he had _no right_. The Sergeant was about to lower his head and slink away when they broke, running from the predator they believed was about to pounce. Whether it was panic, providence, or a conscious decision to die at the hands of fellow humans instead of a menacing gryphon, they ran straight for the unconscious serial killers.

Greg loped after them, unwilling to let them get too far ahead of his protection. Then the first female – the one he’d been tracking – got far enough up the hill to see the fallen subjects. She skidded to a halt, staring at them, then whipped around, green eyes widening. “Did you do that?” she asked aloud.

Behind her, the couple caught up, panting for breath and still trembling with fear. Like her, they stared between the subjects and Greg; he ranged to the side, deliberately hanging back to avoid scaring them any further. Coming to a halt, he twitched his ears forward, met her gaze, and nodded. Eyeing their uncertain, fearful expressions, the gryphon tilted his head to the side, uttering several apologetic chirps. All three jumped, caught off guard by the musical sounds.

Greg might’ve laughed, except he’d jumped just as badly back when he’d first heard himself. As had his team…

* * * * *

_It didn’t take long for Greg to realize that virtually every sound he made was a mix of eagle and lion sounds. After the Healer had inspected his injured wing, Giles had conjured a mirror large enough for the Sergeant to get an idea of his own appearance before heading off to deal with the logistics of getting a gryphon back to Toronto. Most of his constables were still getting checked over and interviewed, but Ed and Wordy were refusing to leave him alone. Although…both men were vibrating with a certain sense of glee through the ‘team sense’; they were looking forward to his reaction to his gryphon reflection._

_Curiosity stirred and he paced in front of the mirror, circling this way and that so he could see himself from as many angles as possible. The eagle head came in handy, giving him a much wider field of vision than he was used to. Between his flexible neck and the eagle physiology, he was able to inspect virtually every part of his Animagus form._

_One factor that caught his attention was that his head looked somewhat like a golden eagle. Thing was, he had the sense that his eagle side_ wasn’t _a golden eagle. He wasn’t sure_ what _his eagle side was, but instinct just didn’t agree with the golden eagle theory._

_Intrigued by the conundrum, he tilted his head, watching his mirror image respond, and chirped. The Sergeant froze, right along with Ed and Wordy._

_Then Wordy snorted, doing his best to hold back laughter. “What was that, Sarge, a seagull?”_

_Embarrassment stirred and he churred objection._

_Only to watch his constables collapse in hysterical laughter._

_For, rather than sounding like a big, tough, menacing predator, he sounded very much like an oversized – if far more refined and musical – seagull. Growling internally, he hissed, adding an eagle screech for good measure. He_ still _didn’t sound like eagles he’d heard in the movies, but at least his screech was more menacing than a_ seagull _. Which wasn’t saying much – the screech sounded vaguely like a crow, though louder and more sibilant._

_On the floor, his teammates howled._

_Feeling his feathers heating, Greg_ knew _he was blushing beet red with humiliation. Oh, he knew Ed and Wordy were just trying to cheer him up by looking on the humorous side of things, but there was a limit and they’d already left it in the dust. Lingering shame mixed with his embarrassment and the gryphon slunk away, silently vowing to stick solely with the gryphon cat-bird sounds instead of letting his eagle vocabulary out_ ever _again. Accordingly, he never attempted to find out if he could ‘speak’ lion, either. And although both Ed and Wordy later apologized for crossing the line, it was yet one more ‘brick’ of embarrassment and shame between Greg and his best friends, made all the worse by the fact that Greg blamed_ himself _for getting embarrassed over something he couldn’t help._

* * * * *

Greg shoved aside his own embarrassment at the ‘seagull’ tenor of his eagle vocabulary. If he could calm the trio down, it was worth a bit of embarrassment. Keeping his posture open and nonthreatening, he chirped at the humans and made his way towards the subjects. He wasn’t about to let them wake up and mess the situation up at _this_ stage.

He was caught off guard when ‘his’ human came right up to him, reaching out to pet him. For a moment, the gryphon froze, then he arched his neck and let the woman stroke the feathers. Still, he was surprised; he’d just got done _terrorizing_ them, why on Earth would they _trust_ him after that? Even if he’d had the best of intentions, he’d frightened them and forced them back towards two men who’d killed their friends and wouldn’t _hesitate_ to kill again if given half a chance.

And yet, all three humans seemed to have completely forgotten the fear as they descended on the subjects with unvarnished glee. The crushed bows and hunter gear made it clear who the unconscious men were. When the male rescuee kicked the taller subject, Greg let out a sharp, chiding squawk. The kick looked hard, possibly even severe enough to do damage. Understandable, perhaps, but Greg didn’t care. No, that wasn’t right; Greg _cared_ , but it wasn’t his job to take revenge on the subjects. As a _cop_ , even if none of them _knew_ that, it was his job to prevent any further harm to anyone. Even two serial killers.

The Sergeant moved away his admirer and over to the subjects, gently levering the angry man away from his friends’ murderers. He butted his head against the man’s chest, a chiding churr-rumble rising from deep within. Warning delivered, he turned his attention to one of the crushed bows and lowered his head. Greg’s beak clamped down, its sharp edges serving perfectly to sever the bowstring, granting them a short length of makeshift rope. While the campers used the bowstring to tie the first subject’s wrists, Greg liberated the second bowstring for ‘his’ human to use. For some reason, she was perfectly comfortable with a big, dangerous predator, reaching out to pet him while he worked. She paused long enough to tie up the second subject, then went right back to petting him.

Greg rumbled, leaning into the petting. The prior times he’d been in his gryphon form, he’d found petting to be nothing short of pure bliss, even though his team found it strange and awkward. _This_ woman had no idea he was really human; her strokes were much firmer and enthusiastic, though the sensation wasn’t nearly as pleasant as when it had come from his family. Still, after months of no affectionate contact – aside from little Jane and Lizzy – Greg wasn’t about to complain.

“You saved us, didn’t you?” the woman whispered, smiling at his affirmative thrum-purr.

“Didn’t save Susie or Andy,” the other woman pointed out, grief breaking through the fear and panic. Her husband wrapped her in a hug, his own grief erupting in the sob he hid in his wife’s hair.

The Sergeant wilted, wings sagging; it was true, he hadn’t been able to save _all_ the campers. Hadn’t even realized danger was _that_ close until it was too late. Despite knowing he couldn’t possibly have stopped the other couple’s murder, guilt still throbbed. He was a _cop_ , he should’ve been able to do _something_.

“If you want to blame somebody, blame me,” the dark-blonde blurted. “ _I’m_ the one who came running into your camp with those guys after me.” One hand stroked the gryphon’s neck again. “This guy didn’t do anything except help us.”

Parker shook his head, churring disagreement. She was a _victim_ , not to blame for what two _serial killers_ had tried to do. _He_ was the cop, he’d seen the situation going sideways and he hadn’t acted quickly enough. He… _Wait…_ Greg turned his head, ears twitching. Sound. He took a step forward, listening hard. Voices, from the direction of the ravaged camp. He could hear the dismay, even if he couldn’t make out the words. Backup. _Help._

Rearing up, the Animagus threw his head back, screech-roaring. The three humans jumped, the camper couple instantly retreating; he ignored them, turning more towards the trees. Beside him, ‘his’ human was startled, but not fleeing. Greg let his foretalons drop down, gathering up every scrap of air he could get. Instinct pulsed and he _reached_ , grasping, for the first time, his purely _lion_ abilities. Muscles flexed, expanding in readiness.

The gryphon roared.

* * * * *

Amber Drake had had quite a bad run of things lately. First, she’d lost her job waitressing at a diner within walking distance of her apartment. Glum and dejected, she’d gone home only to find her boyfriend in bed with the downstairs family’s babysitter. She’d slapped her _ex-boyfriend_ , packed a bag, and left before the police could show up – the babysitter’s screams for her to stay ringing in her ears as she left.

Her faithful car – the one her father had given to her on her eighteenth birthday for them to fix up together – carried her away from the Colorado town she’d been living in, even bravely soldiering up into the mountains before dying on her. Amber hadn’t cried over her boyfriend’s betrayal, but she wept when the faithful Pontiac wouldn’t start again. She’d been on the cusp of grabbing her bags to walk back down the mountain when a dusty red truck pulled up.

Far from being her salvation, the brothers had nearly been her death. The fear as they’d dragged her to another part of the mountains before ‘letting her go’ so they could, quite literally, _hunt_ her down. Amber was still reeling from the rapid turn of events that had, well and truly, saved her life. Who would’ve thought that a _wild animal_ would stop two killers and rescue three humans? She seemed extremely intelligent, too. Able to understand speech and know that bowstrings could be used for restraints. Then she roared. Amber jumped; she sounded _just_ like a real-life _lion_!

“It’s a mountain lion with wings!” the male camper blurted; his wife giggled.

Amber reached out, noticing an amused gleam in deep hazel eyes, and petted their rescuer again. “You heard something, girl?”

Under her hand, sleek muscles stiffened. Then the animal jerked away, casting her a truly _offended_ glare. A deep rowl-hiss came from that broad, feathery yet furry chest.

“What? What is it, girl?”

“Maybe it’s a guy,” the male camper suggested.

Amber propped her hands on her hips. “Don’t be ridiculous,” she snapped. “You ever see a _guy_ animal help someone they don’t know?” Pausing, she added, “Except for dogs.”

The big predator let out a squawk-hiss of objection and Amber couldn’t help but notice that her brave rescuer retreated towards the campers. As if she’d hurt the animal’s feelings. Which was _absurd_ ; what animal, even an _intelligent_ one, cared if it was seen as a girl or guy? That was a _human_ reaction. She paused, running that through her mind again. _Human…_ What if…?

Before Amber could say anything else, shouts came from the trees. She tensed fearfully, jumping when their wild animal roared again, as if trying to attract attention. Except…who would go _towards_ a lion’s roar? “Hey!” Amber called, raising her voice. “We’re over here!”

The campers caught on, both of them screaming for help. Amber nearly screamed herself when she realized their attackers had woken up, but before either man could get free of his restraints, their rescuer/protector intervened, snarl-hissing outrage and ‘casually’ swiping at the two killers with _his_ talons. He never connected, but the threat was enough; the killers huddled towards each other, shivering at the big animal’s ‘threats’. Humph; served them _right_ for killing two people and trying to kill three more.

* * * * *

Despite his indignation at being called a _girl_ , Greg went back to trying to get the attention of the officers searching for the serial killers; he couldn’t be _sure_ that was who they were or what they were trying to do, but it _would_ make sense. Even the ‘best’ serial killer wouldn’t be able to hide the fact that people kept disappearing in this particular stretch of mountains. It was too soon for the four campers to be missed, so perhaps the victim Parker had stumbled across had been found. Or maybe yet another victim, one that Greg didn’t know about…

When his three rescuees started shouting and hollering, the Sergeant nearly wilted in relief. Truly, their voices were better suited than his to attract attention – at least, the _good_ type of attention. Most would rather go _away_ from a lion’s roar than _towards_ it. Instead, he turned his focus towards the two subjects, unsurprised that the racket had woken them up. Shifting, he eyed them with a _distinctly_ predatory glare and allowed a low, dangerous snarl-hiss. When the taller one glared, he swiped, though Parker was careful to keep his strike from connecting. Both subjects quailed – not unexpected. They were _cowards_ , only willing to attack when _they_ had the advantage, either with their bows or the knives Greg knew they carried. Although it was true that very few, cowards or not, would cross a gryphon, the Sergeant was quite sure the brothers would’ve reacted the same if he’d been in human form and equipped with his sidearm.

The gryphon flattened his ears, both to communicate his displeasure and in an attempt to shield himself from the yelling going on around him. Necessary as it was, he _still_ didn’t have to enjoy the audio assault on sensitive hearing. Despite the noise, he stayed where he was, determined to see his rescuees safe before continuing on his journey. Really, he didn’t _need_ to stay; the odds of the subjects escaping their restraints before help arrived were nil, plus he’d be breaking the Statute even worse than he _already_ had, but he was still a cop. To just _leave_ grated; it felt wrong on too many levels.

Shouts. Running footsteps. Greg eased back, mentally smiling as several people, all of them armed, emerged from the woods. The astonishment and relief – he knew without asking that he’d been right. They’d been after the serial killers, desperately hoping they could save the latest victims before it was too late. Some of them spotted him and went for their weapons, only for all three of his rescuees to jump between him and the new arrivals.

“No!” ‘his’ human cried. “He saved us!”

The shorter subject tensed and Greg _moved_. The subject squalled in fear, freezing in place with Parker’s talons fully extended and only centimeters from his throat. _Don’t you move a_ muscle _,_ Greg thought at the man, every _inch_ a SWAT cop in that instant.

One of the new arrivals pulled his sidearm, but didn’t point it at the gryphon. Instead, Greg’s peripheral vision caught the man’s advance forward until he was right by the antagonists. The weapon lifted, aimed squarely at the subject. Feathered tail curling in satisfaction, Parker eased away, withdrawing his talons, though he snorted derision at the subject before swirling away and stalking to ‘his’ human’s side. Once by her side, he looked up, fresh surprise spurting beneath his fur.

For the man pointing his gun at the subject was Special Agent Derek Morgan. And among the officers and park rangers was Special Agent Emily Prentiss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise! Stealth crossover (and canon-mangling) for the win. Actually, I didn't mean to mangle _Criminal Minds_ canon quite this much…I could've _sworn_ this episode was _after_ Gideon left, but turns out it's a Season 2 episode ("Open Season").
> 
> For those who are confused, when the BAU first appeared in the Magical Flashpoint 'verse, they were from a shadowy world between _Criminal Minds_ Seasons 2 and 3 since both Jason Gideon and David Rossi were on the team at the same time. Gideon left after Season 2 and Rossi came in at the beginning of Season 3. So…I've moved "Open Season" out of Season 2 and also relocated the serial killers from Idaho to Colorado. Oh, well.


	5. Catch Me If You Can

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My parents will be flying from Chicago to Dallas today to stay with me for Christmas. Please pray that their flight will be safe and that we will be able to link up successfully on the ground.
> 
> And now... _enjoy_...

Greg alternated between ‘his’ human – she’d introduced herself as Amber Drake – and the two FBI profilers. Part of him hoped they’d figure out _who_ he was, but the Sergeant knew it was unlikely at best. To the profilers, he was a Toronto police Sergeant they’d met _once_ and none of them had ever been told about his Animagus form. In all honestly, he wouldn’t be a bit surprised if all of them thought he was extremely unprofessional. After all, he _had_ shot a subject and endangered two of his constables; that his magic had been tainted and very much out of his control hadn’t been something he’d found out until later.

Beneath the surface, old shame burbled, but Greg firmly pushed it aside. He hadn’t been physically _capable_ of controlling his magic; that it had taken until Fletcher Stadium before his tainted magic completely rebelled was a _miracle_. Although it had taken him most of his time undercover to come to terms with the fact, the _truth_ , that the tainted magic’s behavior _wasn’t_ his fault, he had and he wasn’t about to let misplaced guilt erase that progress.

At least, he reflected ruefully, he was no longer the ‘mountain lion with wings’. Agents Morgan and Prentiss had immediately put paid to that, correctly identifying him as a gryphon. Which just made Drake squeal – why were women’s voices capable of such high, piercing decibels? Greg had ensured he stayed far, far away from the woman until she calmed down.

On the other side of the group, the two surviving campers were starting to grieve for their friends. Wrong place, wrong time, that was all it had taken. Greg kept half an eye on them, wishing he could _talk_ to them. They hadn’t done anything wrong and neither had Drake. The only ones to blame for the killings were the subjects. _They_ , at least, would never see the light of day again; from what Greg could overhear, the pair was responsible for deaths going back a good twenty years and there had apparently been a _third_ serial killer, now deceased.

“Hotch, we got ‘em.” Parker glanced up at Agent Morgan, but kept quiet. Bad enough that he was openly flouting the Statute of Secrecy without letting Morgan’s cell phone pick up gryphon sounds. “You alone?”

Faintly, from the other side, Greg heard, “Morgan, is something wrong?”

Morgan glanced down at the gryphon keeping pace. “Unsubs are in cuffs and we rescued three near victims.”

“But?”

“You and Gideon aren’t gonna believe this.”

“Morgan.” Though the word was flat, Greg easily picked up the gritted undertone and wordless demand for an explanation.

“Hotch, our unsubs got taken down by a _griffin_.”

“What?”

“Yeah and it’s hanging around, like it wants something. Got a collar, too.”

“Could it belong to one of the victims?”

Greg bristled; he did not _belong_ to _anyone_! But Morgan was already shaking his head, though Agent Hotchner couldn’t see him. “Don’t think so, Hotch. One of the campers it rescued called it a, and I quote, ‘mountain lion with wings’.”

Over the phone, Hotchner snorted laughter.

“Hotch, it’s not flyin’ at all, like it knows if it flies, it’s breaking the Statute.”

“And?” Greg bobbed his head, pleased at the probing undertone.

Morgan was silent a moment or two. When he spoke, his words were slow. Careful. “Hotch, there’s something weird about this. It could’ve killed the unsubs, but it _didn’t_. Not even when one of ‘em almost got loose right when we got there. I mean, they’re banged up, but that’s _it_. What kinda animal is gonna do _that_?”

“You think it might be an Animagus?”

“Maybe.” For another breath, silence hung, then Morgan cleared his throat. “Anyway, we’re on our way down. If this guy sticks with us, you can see him when we get back.”

As if Greg was going _anywhere_ ; they’d already guessed the fundamentals, if not the specifics. To _leave_ now meant passing up a one-of-a-kind opportunity. If the profilers – or an American Auror – could get this blasted collar _off_ , then he could transform and borrow a phone long enough to call Commander Holleran. Might take another day or two, but he’d be _home_. And perhaps they could figure out _who’d_ slapped the collar on him in the _first_ place. Whoever it was, they’d either hit him from behind or snatched him after a piece of debris knocked him out. Although he owed his life to the intervention, Parker was fairly sure that slapping this stupid collar on him and Portkeying him to the Rocky Mountains negated the debt. Big time. Not to mention leaving his family thinking he was _dead_. Fresh determination flooded him; he wasn’t giving up now. Not when he was so close.

When Agent Morgan hung up, Greg let out a happy **squrr** and rubbed against the profiler, doing his best to communicate that yes, he _was_ an Animagus and yes, he _was_ sticking around. At least long enough to get the collar on his neck off.

* * * * *

To Greg’s private relief, he was able to hitch a ride in a pickup truck on their way down the mountain, saving his paws and talons some wear and tear. The gryphon huddled up in the truck bed and kept his head down, hoping to go unnoticed by anyone besides the LEOs and his rescuees. Assuming his half-baked idea worked, he was already in a boatload of trouble; the Sergeant had lost count of how many people he’d broken the Statute of Secrecy in front of. He didn’t need to add any more.

Agents Morgan and Prentiss seemed to have the same idea; before leaving the crime scene, they draped a lightweight tarp over the big predator, doing their best to shield his features from casual observation. The tarp was rather dusty and smelt of the outdoors, but Greg truly didn’t mind. It was at least a token effort to keep the Statute somewhat intact.

At the base of the mountain, Greg waited for the truck to park and for the tailgate to be lowered before he moved. He kept low before leaping out, landing in the circle of profilers and officers. Beyond the circle, he could see the campers and Drake being guided into a building nearby. They would be interviewed and arrangements made to help them get home as well as replace what they’d lost. The couple’s camping gear had become evidence in two homicides; plus, unless Greg missed his guess, they scarce wanted anything to do with gear that would only remind them of the friends they’d seen murdered. As for Amber, it was entirely possible that all she had were the clothes on her back, but it was no longer his concern. She was alive and safe; that would have to do.

The gryphon turned his attention back to the group around him, ears pricked and head cocked slightly to the side. Agent Morgan made a huffing sound, then gestured for Greg to follow; he trailed after the profiler, automatically noting his surroundings as they moved. Once inside the building, Parker tucked his wings as close as possible and kept his eyes open to avoid knocking into any walls or tables. He wasn’t surprised when Agent Morgan guided him into a room with all the other American FBI profilers his team had met. The only one not present was Agent Jareau, which made sense; she was the only one who hadn’t seen the video of Spike and Wordy’s confrontation with Toronto’s magical serial killer.

Of course, Greg reflected ruefully, knowing about magic didn’t mean any of the profilers knew what to do with a magical creature. To a man, they gawped at the big predator, looking rather uneasy and fearful. The gryphon moved far enough into the room to keep from blocking the doorway, then sat, tucking his hindquarters close and lashing his tail around. Movement complete, he tilted his head to the side and churred a greeting. Best to be on his best behavior, especially considering the stakes.

“You weren’t kidding, were you?” Agent – _Doctor_ – Reid murmured, edging closer to get a better look at Greg’s appearance.

“I don’t kid about stuff like this, Reid,” Agent Morgan replied, tone flat. Glancing over at a stoic Agent Hotcher, he added, “We think it’s a guy, Hotch. One of the women said he _really_ didn’t like being called a girl.”

Greg flinched, something Agent Hotcher’s dark eyes didn’t miss. “I see,” the agent observed, tone thoughtful. “Anything else we know?”

“He crushed the unsubs’ bows,” Agent Morgan reported. “We think he took the unsubs down, then brought the vics back to help him tie ‘em up. They all said he bit the strings off the bows for them to use as restraints. And I already told Hotch how he didn’t slice either of the unsubs up. Just knocked ‘em around.”

Black brows rose and, off to the side, Agent Reid looked quite impressed. The tall, slender doctor asked, “Would any magical creature do that, Hotch?”

“I don’t know,” the older profiler admitted. “I doubt it, though. That much reasoning suggests…”

“An Animagus,” Agent Gideon put in from his own spot in the room, tucked in the room’s darkest corner.

Greg turned his head, studying the man. Agent Gideon appeared far more wan and worn than he had in Toronto, suggesting that he was under a considerable amount of stress. More than just the current case, the Sergeant was sure. Unfortunately, there was nothing Parker could do to help; it was up to Agent Gideon’s teammates to help. Assuming the elder man let them, which Greg’s instincts weren’t so sure about.

“So what do we do?” Agent Morgan asked, glancing back towards Agent Prentiss. She’d taken up a post in the doorway, keeping anyone outside of the profilers from wandering in to see the gryphon. “You’d think an Animagus would change back. Take the unsubs out with his wand.”

Greg whined and shook his head forcefully. One forefoot rose, the talons briefly rubbing against the collar around his neck. All the agents noticed and Agent Reid even stepped forward before Agent Morgan waved him back. The gryphon held very still as the black man crouched, running his hands over the collar. Agent Morgan frowned, pausing at the very front of the collar. “Reid, you got a flashlight on you?”

“Sure,” the younger man agreed, fishing in a pocket before coming up with a penlight.

Internally, Parker winced, but he continued to hold as still as possible. To his relief, the light didn’t shine in his eyes. Agent Morgan angled it down at the collar before turning it on and he was careful to keep from moving the flashlight up as he inspected something on the collar.

“Okay, I see what looks like some kind of emblem on here. Red tree, black background. It’s on what _looks_ like a buckle, but I’m not seeing any way to make it unlatch.” Greg felt the man’s fingers curl around the collar, feeling the back and searching for _something_ , but still, the collar did not release and he could practically _sense_ Agent Morgan’s frustration. At last, the fingers withdrew and Agent Morgan turned back to his colleagues. “I think we’re gonna need somebody who knows a whole lot more than we do about magic.”

“I’ll make the call,” Agent Hotchner agreed.

* * * * *

Greg did his best to stay low and out of sight in the small law enforcement office. Unfortunately, word about the gryphon had spread like wildfire, making it nearly impossible for Parker to stay anonymous. The profilers did what they could, but the big predator was most unhappy when the _safest_ place for him turned out to be a disused office, behind an old desk. There was scarcely room to _breathe_ , never mind move or turn around.

Dejected, but resigned, Greg curled up and tried to sleep, but it was no use. His mind was far too active, longing for home wrenching heart and soul. Would it ever be the same? Eddie had been Team One’s Sergeant for two months; it was hardly fair to demand he step aside in favor of a man who’d _lied_ to him. He hadn’t had any choice, not with the gag order, but still…

A tiny sniffle registered; hang it all! It was his form, he knew; gryphons ran on emotions and instinct. Hiding emotions weren’t necessary for them. Or maybe it was knowing how much he’d have to rebuild. Broken faith, broken trust. His undercover assignment had been bad enough, but to _die_ on them… Grief spiraled through him, a twisting pain that reminded the Sergeant of the day he’d woken from a drunken haze to find his family gone. Only…this time _he’d_ left _them_. Not intentionally by any means, but he had nonetheless.

Even once he made it home, it would take time and effort to rebuild the relationships he’d been forced to shatter. A pang ran through him – none of his friendships would ever be what they’d been before. He would, of course, do his best to rebuild them into something far stronger, but he knew it was far more likely that they’d be weak, fragile, and prone to breakage – and _that_ was assuming he _could_ restore the trust he’d obliterated in the first place.

But surely it was better to try than to just give up? What was the phrase? Better to have loved and lost than to never have loved at all? Foolish romantic nonsense, except for how true those words rang. Greg would willingly grovel for _days_ if it meant he could have his _family_ back. Would willingly retire and leave Eddie with Team One if that meant they would give him another chance.

One thing he would _not_ do. They could cajole, bully, and threaten, but he _wasn’t_ going undercover _ever_ again. He _wasn’t_ going to lie to his people, to his _family_ ever again, no matter _how_ many gag orders he had on him. Castor Troy had used his loyalty to the force, his obedience to the law, as a weapon against him. Against his team and his family. Troy might not have known the _cop_ Greg Parker had become, but he – and his loathsome sister – had gambled that Greg would bow to an illegitimate transfer and a pre-emptive gag order because they were _technically_ legal. They had _bet_ that they could isolate him and cut him off from every last _scrap_ of support he had.

He’d walked right into it. And _because_ he’d walked right into their trap, his _family_ was suffering. Worse, he’d _inflicted_ most of that suffering all by _himself_. Utterly, completely _unforgivable_. _If_ they forgave him, it would be far, far more than he deserved. Grace that he could never repay.

Before Greg could finish chasing that train of thought all the way back to its rabbit hole, he heard the office door open. The gryphon tensed, only to relax as Agent Morgan’s footsteps made their way around the desk. Awkward, Parker craned around, letting out a soft, inquiring trill.

“Come on, big guy,” Agent Morgan replied, crouching down and running a hand down Greg’s flank. “Auror’s here.”

_Copy that._

Careful to keep from banging his head or wings…or beak, Parker slunk out from under the ancient, dust-ridden desk and followed the FBI profiler out of the tiny room. Time to reclaim the life Castor Troy had stolen from him.

* * * * *

Agent Morgan and Greg entered the ‘FBI section’ of the office just as Agent Rossi wrapped up his explanation of the an-Animagus-stopped-our-unsubs theory to the American Auror. “We think he might be trapped and that’s why he hasn’t changed back,” the agent finished, glancing over at the new arrivals.

Parker rumbled to himself, quite pleased with how quick the profilers had been on the uptake. Even for intelligent, intuitive investigators, it was a bit of a leap to go from ‘animal that acts like a human’ to ‘Animagus’. Curious, yet cautious, he turned his attention to the Auror. She was blonde and rather short, but he couldn’t tell much more than that with her back to him. Hope surged within him; with any luck, his nightmare was almost over. And yet… The woman’s stance hinted at a sense of arrogance and superiority. Her head was tilted to the side; though Greg couldn’t see the witch’s expression, he could see Agent Rossi’s frustration with it.

Then she turned and he met cool gray eyes for an instant before she laughed. “A griffin?” she jeered. “You think a _griffin_ is an Animagus?”

Greg’s ears flicked back, a growl rumbling in his chest at her scorn.

“Animagi _can’t_ be magical animals,” the Auror snapped, disdain echoing.

Wait, what? The gryphon’s ears laid back, flattening in outrage. That was an outright _lie_. While it was true that magical Animagus forms were almost unheard of, requiring extremely powerful wizards, they weren’t _impossible_. Half-magical forms, such as a half-kneazle **(3),** were more common for powerful wizards, while non-magical animals comprised the bulk of known Animagus forms.

Privately, though, Greg wondered. Animagus training wasn’t a _common_ endeavour in the magical world, so it was possible that the purely magical creature forms were unknown because _Animagi_ were rare. Still, for some high-handed witch to declare the idea of a magical Animagus form _impossible_ was utterly outrageous. His growl grew louder, adding a furious bird-like hiss, and his sixth sense started looking for a hasty exit. He just might need one.

“Then how come he’s got a collar?” Agent Morgan challenged the Auror. “He wants it off, can tell you that much.”

Internally, Greg cringed. Neither a collar nor wanting it off were definite proof that he _was_ , in fact, human. Any animal might want the same. Still, the Animagus held his position, meeting the other’s gaze with his own challenge. He wasn’t giving up. Not now, not when he was so _close_.

The witch paused, then drew her wand, flicking it in a diagnostic around the collar. Her snub nose scrunched at the results. “Nasty,” she muttered, casting the gryphon a faintly sympathetic glance, which only made him tense further. What was wrong with the collar?

“Can you get it off?” Dr. Reid inquired.

The witch cast him an annoyed glance, then shook her head. “No.” At the glares from the profilers, she held up her free hand and looked directly at Agent Morgan. “Did you try to get it off?”

Dread stirred. There was definitely _something_ wrong with the collar, but what?

Agent Morgan offered a half-shrug. “I took a look at it, but I couldn’t find any way to make it unlatch. Does that count?”

The Auror frowned, more thoughtful than angry or condescending. “I doubt it,” she mused after a minute. Turning back, she flicked her wand in a second diagnostic, examining the results narrowly. At last she shook her head again. “No, it wouldn’t, Agent Morgan. Physically _attempting_ to remove the collar wouldn’t trigger the curse.”

_Curse_? _What_ curse? Greg let out a plaintive squall-whine, doing his best to plead for an explanation.

Between Greg’s animal plea and the expectant gazes around her, the Auror huffed a sigh. “There’s a curse on the collar,” she remarked, tone curt. “If anyone attempts to remove this collar _magically_ , it will trigger a curse that goes after the caster _and_ any blood family.”

“What would it do?” Agent Hotchner inquired, voice level.

The Auror barked a laugh. “I don’t know and I’m not planning on finding out,” she snapped, an edge of ‘do-I- _look_ -that-stupid-to-you’ in the sentence. “Doesn’t matter,” the witch added. “He’s just going to a zoo anyway.”

“But if he’s an Animagus…” Dr. Reid attempted to protest.

“Didn’t you _hear_ me, _No-Maj_?” Scorn and fresh jeering. “It’s a _griffin_ , just a dumb animal. Not an Animagus, whatever _you_ think about it.” With that, she turned towards Greg, lifting her wand again.

The gryphon dodged, lunging past the humans for the nearest window. It wasn’t big enough for his bulk, but that scarce mattered. He _wasn’t_ going to some _zoo_ ; he’d _never_ get home if he did. The profilers ducked and the witch swore as glass shattered; Parker hissed as broken shards plucked at wings and flesh alike, but refused to slow. In moments, he was through the window, out of the building, and racing for the forest. The deepening night swallowed him before anyone could give chase.

[3] A kneazle is a magical cat; they have spotted, speckled or flecked fur, large ears, and a lightly plumed tail, akin to that of a lion’s. They are also closely related enough to mundane cats to interbreed with them, hence the term, ‘half-kneazle’.


	6. Barking at the Moon

“Hello?”

Greg stiffened at the call; he hadn’t gone far from the town. Perhaps ironically, it happened to be right between himself and Toronto, forcing the gryphon to remain close while he debated how to get past it. His panicked flight had left him short several dozen feathers and adorned in bloody scratches on his sides and legs. Nothing that wouldn’t heal, but he wouldn’t be trying _that_ again anytime soon. Well…maybe if he had to.

“Please come out, I won’t hurt you,” the female voice coaxed.

Wary, Greg prowled to where he could see the woman. Not that he was planning on letting her know where he was. Once was enough, thank you.

She stood in a clearing, though it was small. Green eyes scanned the trees and she’d caught her bottom lip with her teeth, worrying it a touch. The grubby polo and jeans were gone, replaced by fresh clothing, though he couldn’t tell the colors in the darkness. A tiny smattering of freckles dusted her face, one eyebrow white and the other dark-blonde, like her hair. Her nose was small, her chin almost delicate in the way it curved. Hope faded into disappointment and Amber’s shoulders slumped.

“If you’re there, I just wanted to say thank you,” she called. A hesitation, then she stepped forward. “And…and I believe you. I think you’re human, no matter what that lady said.”

Feathery, furry ears pricked, but Greg held perfectly still.

For a minute, silence reigned. Then Amber sighed and stepped back. “I’ll never forget you,” she whispered, turning to go.

Instinct murmured, overriding Parker’s caution. Without thinking, he dropped from his sheltering tree, landing on the ground with a soft _thud_.

Amber whipped back around, eyes wide as she met Parker’s hazel. She smiled, a broad, happy smile that sent an odd sensation through Greg’s chest. “There you are,” the young woman whispered, crouching. Both hands stretched out, holding a plate that Greg hadn’t noticed until that very moment. He couldn’t see it very well in the darkness, but the scent of cooked meat drifted to his beak. The gryphon crept to her, sniffing at the meat before he snatched the steak off the plate, though he opted not to eat right in front of her. He most _certainly_ had better manners than _that_.

She studied him, then giggled. “Never eat in front of a girl, right?”

Greg nodded, earning a second giggle.

One slim hand stroked his head, rubbing gently behind one ear. “I, um, I’m gonna call my folks tomorrow,” Amber told him. “Tell them everything that happened.” She paused. “I guess my ex didn’t want to press charges, so I don’t have to stay here or anything.”

Both ears pricked. Surely neither of the subjects had been her _boyfriend_. And what was that about _charges_?

But Amber did not explain. “I told the cops about my car and I guess it got found already, but it’s busted.” A sniffle and Greg spied wetness at the corner of one eye. “I’ll ask my Dad what I should get, so I can get home. At least my stuff is okay; that’s something, I guess.” Another pause. “Um, you can eat that now. I need to take the plate back and I already ate.”

Oh. She’d brought the plate for _him_. Understanding, Greg let the steak down, carefully ripping off a piece with his beak before it landed on the plate again. The gryphon ate cautiously, doing his best to keep from damaging the plate or making the surface screech – nails-on-a-chalkboard did _not_ appeal. When he’d eaten everything save the bone, he trilled thanks before he snatched it.

Before he could slip away, she reached out, resting a hand on his head. “Listen, could you come back here tomorrow? Same time?”

The Sergeant considered, then met her gaze around the bone and nodded.

“Great, see you tomorrow, big guy.”

Bemused, Greg watched her go. Considering, he decided it might be a good idea for him to eat as much as possible and possibly find a handy river for another bath. Particularly if his newborn hope turned out to be correct.

* * * * *

Fortunately, Greg did, indeed, locate a handy river close to town. He wasn’t able to locate any fish on such short notice, but _did_ find a herd of deer. Ignoring his human distaste, Parker let his gryphon side take control and soon realized he should’ve done that from the start. The gryphon prowled with an ease that his mountain lion teacher would’ve envied, curling around the herd from the trees with only the creaking of the branches marking his route. On the far side, he crouched, eyeing an older male who’d wandered just a bit too far from the rest of the herd.

In a blur of speed, the gryphon dropped, landing next to the deer and launching upwards to latch onto its back. Powerful muscles flexed, dragging the prey sideways and down. Talons closed and the big predator’s beak bit down, severing the spinal cord. Death was instantaneous, something Greg’s human side was grateful for. He’d accepted that, as a carnivore, he had little choice _but_ to hunt – still, he hated inflicting unnecessary suffering.

Despite suspecting that Amber would bring him food again, Parker dug into his meal. A single steak, no matter how well cooked, wasn’t enough to fill him. While many steaks came with bones, something his gryphon instincts insisted was quite important, the bones were small and insufficient. And so, regardless of if his fledging hope was right or wrong, Greg knew he had to eat when he could, storing and reserving his strength for the trek home.

With that very much in mind, the gryphon ate every scrap of bone and meat before him, then headed back to the river to clean up – and hack up any gryphon ‘hairballs’. Disgusting as the thought was, the ‘hairballs’ were yet another part and parcel of being trapped in his Animagus form. Fudge.

* * * * *

By the time the sun went down, Greg was back in position, though he was much less tense than he’d been the night before. The gryphon fairly lounged in the trees around the clearing, enjoying a moment to relax. If he was wrong, so be it, but if he was _right_ … Well, if he was right, it would be well worth the lost day of travel.

The sound of an engine drew his head up, though the gryphon edged back, using the branches to hide himself from any unexpected visitors. That Auror might’ve adjudged him a ‘dumb animal’, but he was nothing of the kind and _determined_ to maintain the Statute as much as possible – outside of extenuating circumstances of course. Greg edged back a bit further, tucking his wings as close to his body as possible as he eyed the part of the clearing closest to the road.

“Hello?”

Parker relaxed; it was her. He paused long enough to scan for any other humans, then shuffled forward and dropped out of the tree.

“There you are,” Amber exclaimed quietly, a smile spreading. She hurried forward to meet him, petting him almost automatically. Then she jerked back, looking between her hand and the gryphon. “Oh! I’m sorry, I shouldn’t be doing that. I mean…you’re human and…”

Greg rumbled laughter and nudged her.

“You…you don’t mind?”

He shook his head.

Amber beamed and went back to petting him. “I called my parents,” she chattered, before faltering and drawing back to hug herself. “Dad…he was so mad at those guys and my ex.”

Parker rubbed against her, offering what comfort he could. So, her boyfriend _hadn’t_ been one of the subjects. That was something of a relief; at least she hadn’t had that sort of betrayal to deal with.

The woman managed a shaky smile. “Thank you,” she whispered, reaching down to hug him around the neck. After a few moments, she shook her head and kept going, a determined note in her voice. “Anyway…they sent me some money so I could get a car and go home. Wanna see it?”

Greg suppressed a whine – all she wanted to do was show off her car? – and followed the young woman back to the road. Then he froze, beak dropping open as he stared at the large, rugged pickup truck parked by the side of the road. The engine _alone_ …it _looked_ powerful, even with the hood down and hidden by the truck’s almost muscular front end. The grill was silver and large, with a small Ford logo in the center, bracketed by headlights about a third shorter than the grill; they were a mix of square and angular, perfectly suited to the hefty engine behind them. The vehicle was two-tone, painted a dark blue over most of its body while the undercarriage and lower panels were a subdued tan hue. It was clearly used; mud was splattered over the front and the paint sported tiny chips here and there. The Sergeant couldn’t tell how well the vehicle ran, but it was big enough for _him_. The idea that this traumatized young woman had picked out a vehicle for _his_ benefit was rather humbling, especially since he suspected she’d never driven a truck before.

As he stared, she went over to the truck and lowered the tailgate. “Come on, big guy,” she called. “I know we can’t get very far tonight, but I want to get out of here.”

The gryphon prowled forward, noting the prominent F-150 right in front of the driver door, and hopped up into the truck bed. Amber crawled up after him, retrieving a tarp that looked rather familiar. It smelt different and appeared to be both larger and heavier than the other tarp had been, but Amber put it to use in much the same fashion, tucking it around Greg’s unique features to conceal them from random observers.

Once she was done, she slid out of the truck bed, put the tailgate back up, and headed around to the driver’s side door. Greg felt the truck creak beneath him as her weight pulled it sideways ever so slightly, then Amber was in her seat. The key turned, heralding a comforting rumble from the engine, then the truck pulled out. The gryphon cringed as the truck made a laborious, jerky three-point turn, sighing with relief when the vehicle finally completed the turn and began to make its way through town. Once they were through the small town, the truck cruised onto the mountain roads beyond.

* * * * *

Enough of the afternoon and evening remained to get them out of the Rocky Mountains and down into Colorado Springs proper. Although Greg was forced to keep his head down, he was enthralled by the scenery around him, silently vowing that a future vacation _would_ bring him – and his kids – back out to Colorado so he could get an actual look around. Between the scenery, the history, and any tourist attractions, Parker was certain his kids would have a _blast_. Besides, it had been far too long since he’d taken time off. Even after his _nipotes_ ’ arrival, he hadn’t taken many vacations – and _this_ certainly did _not_ count.

When the truck pulled into a motel parking lot, Greg resigned himself to sleeping in the truck bed and waiting for his next meal, but Amber came around the back once she’d checked in and moved her truck closer to her room. As she lowered the tailgate, she murmured, “Come on, big guy. I’ll get you something a little later, but let’s get you inside.”

With a nod, Greg slunk forward and leapt down to follow his rescuee-turned-chauffer to her hotel room. He wasn’t surprised that she’d rented a single – besides, even if she’d gotten a double, the Sergeant knew he wouldn’t have slept on the bed. Not with his claws and talons. Besides, the carpeted floor was more than enough after several nights sleeping rough in the mountains. He _was_ surprised when Amber departed and came back with two takeout containers that smelled of steak for him; much as he appreciated the gesture, to constantly be buying steak had to be cutting into what few funds she had left. The truck, likewise, had to have been far outside her budget.

He whimper-whined, wishing he could _talk_ and explain.

And yet, to his shock, she seemed to understand his concern. Brushing a lock of hair back, she set the two steaks down and explained, “I told my Dad, you know. About you.” A faint smile. “I know we weren’t supposed to, but how else was I supposed to explain why I needed a truck and enough money to buy lots of steak?” Her smile turned almost shy. “He said if I’d found a man willing to beat up two serial killers for me, then I should hang onto him.”

Greg blushed all the way down to the roots of his feathers. He was at least twenty _years_ older than her! With three kids, an ex-wife, and a drinking problem – even if he hadn’t touched a drop in over a decade. Besides, he already had a girlfriend. Assuming she hadn’t moved on after he’d gone undercover.

“Easy, big guy, he didn’t mean it. I already yelled at him; I don’t even know your _name_.”

Oh, good…it had just been a joke. Rather sad, that he hadn’t realized that until she’d said so.

Sheepish, Parker towed one of the takeaway containers into the bathroom and made short work of the first steak. He would wait until morning to eat the other. Once he was done, he carried the empty foam container back to her and headed to the inner side of the bed to curl up. To his bemusement, Amber turned on the TV, turning to the History Channel and some show about ancient aliens. Talk about not giving ancient civilization much credit – just because it was hard to figure out _how_ they’d built all those structures didn’t mean aliens had come down out of the sky to do it _for_ them. Although…perhaps…perhaps they’d had magical help. After all, that _had_ been far, far before the Statute of Secrecy.

With those theories and others running through his mind, Greg curled up a bit more and went to sleep.

* * * * *

The next morning, Amber heated up the remaining steak before giving it to Greg, then departed for her own breakfast. Half an hour later, she came back with a plate piled high with sausage and ham. Before the gryphon could voice any protest, the young woman giggled. “Free breakfast,” she explained. “I told them my friend was a real meat-eater.”

The pun was _terrible_ , but the meat went down nicely, particularly since Greg knew it had essentially come with the room. His more gryphon side whimpered, longing for a few bones, but subsided at Greg’s mental glare. Amber was doing her best and – indeed – spending far more money on him than she should.

Once he’d finished, Amber stepped outside, scanning for any observers before walking to her truck and lowering the tailgate. When she signaled, Greg streaked out of the room, racing to the rear of the truck before whirling and jumping up into the back. He curled up, fluffing his wings a bit to give himself more air before the tarp settled in place. Amber tucked the ends under him, frowning.

“We’re going on the highway today, big guy. I think I’m gonna have to tie this thing down. That okay with you?”

The Sergeant trilled and nodded, accepting the inevitable logic. Losing the tarp on the highway would be bad and besides, if the tarp was tied down, it might protect him a bit from the truck’s momentum. Unlikely, but perhaps.

“Okay, stay still, big guy. I’m gonna have to get tie-downs at a hardware store.”

Greg nodded again, watching Amber slither out of the truck bed. She departed for a few minutes; when she came back, she climbed up and started the vehicle, pulling out into traffic shortly thereafter. A few streets later, Greg caught a glimpse of a hardware store sign before they pulled in. Amber parked and left, leaving the gryphon behind to stew. He had no idea where in the United States she was headed, but her route thus far _had_ taken them _towards_ Toronto. The longer he could ride, the less he’d have to walk, so it would be best to stick with her as long as possible, unless she passed Toronto.

He analyzed the links, pulling them to the fore of his awareness. The colors shone bright within his mind’s eye, confirming what he already knew. They were still alive and in good health – at least physically. Instinctively, he reached for them, crying out over the vast distance, but just as before, the communication winked out, vanishing into nothingness. Blasted, bloody collar. But not even the collar could stop him from _going home_.

_I’m coming, guys. I don’t know how far it is and I don’t know how long it’ll take, but I promise, I’m coming home. No matter what._

Footsteps brought his head up, but it was just Amber coming back with what looked like a bag full of tie-downs. It took another hour and as much help as Greg could offer in his form, but by the end, the gryphon had a truck bed hidey-hole that was even somewhat ventilated, thanks to the way the tarp was now draped over the truck sides, the tie-downs threaded through six metal rings on the edges of the tarp. Much more pleasant than being _wrapped_ in the thing.

* * * * *

The one downside to Greg’s hidey-hole was his inability to watch the scenery change around the truck. The tarp’s position blocked most of his view, forcing him to choose between staying hidden and potentially being seen if he craned out enough to watch the fields fly by. Despite a keen sense of disappointment, Parker opted for the safer route of curling up and staying under the tarp’s protective fabric, though he privately vowed that _when_ he came back for a _real_ vacation, he’d take in every last _kilometer_ of scenery. In the meantime, the gryphon curled a bit tighter and went to sleep.

* * * * *

Greg woke when the rumble of the truck engine changed. At first, he was a bit alarmed – was the truck breaking down? – then he relaxed as he registered the other changes. The highway sounds were dimming, the speed of the vehicle beneath him slowing. From somewhere in the distance, he could hear the chatter of families – a rest stop. Or perhaps a gas station.

Amber turned the truck and Parker wasn’t surprised when the engine cut out moments later. Had to be a rest stop; the movement felt more like getting into a parking spot than pulling up to a gas pump. The gryphon remained where he was, stiff but unwilling to risk the Statute.

“Hey, big guy,” Amber called, her head appearing over the tailgate. “Want to stretch your legs?”

He did, very much, but there was still the Statute to consider. Greg was about to whine when he heard footsteps. Heavier, with more than a hint of swagger.

“Well hello there, little lady.” Smug, self-assured; the negotiator could almost _see_ the man’s confident, ladies-man expression.

Gryphon ears laid back; after being betrayed by one man and _hunted_ by two more, Amber did not need some idiot _male_ hitting on her at a highway rest stop. Worse, he could see the blonde’s face. She was already trembling, fear plain along with a hopeless, trapped expression. Whatever her normal response to someone hitting on her was, her trauma had rendered it moot. Greg had no doubt that Amber would bolt at the least little opening. Either that or she would freeze completely.

A low, furious growl rumbled in the gryphon’s chest and he let the volume build, careful to keep from letting any bird-like trills or screeches out. His eagle chirps and trills might be amusing, but they weren’t what he needed now. Despite the temptation to move and deal with the fool more directly, Greg remained where he was, silently calculating how much louder he could growl without terrifying Amber.

There was another two footsteps, then Greg heard the man stop, the swallow audible even from his truck bed hidey-hole. His growl escalated, slowly shifting to a snarl. Seconds later, the ladies-man retreated, leaving woman and gryphon alone. The negotiator let his growl die away, ears pricking in Amber’s direction and a certain amount of his own smugness showing.

Amber stilled, staring at him for a long minute. Then she giggled and all was well in the world again. She pulled the tail gate down, saying, “Come on, big guy. Let’s stretch your legs before we get back on the road again.”

Greg hunched, scooting forward before warily dropping down, but Amber had chosen her spot well. They were right by grass tall enough to hide his gryphon features and well away from other travelers. Parker spied one man hastening away and smirked inwardly. With any luck, the idiot would think twice before he hit on any other young women. Turning away, he darted into the grass to stretch his legs. Perhaps…

_Rabbit!_

Darting left, the gryphon snatched up the panicked animal, silencing it with razor talons – a perfect midday snack. Though he wouldn’t take _this_ particular treat back to Amber’s new truck.

* * * * *

The days settled into a pattern. Aside from stops for gas or to stretch their legs, Amber drove most of the day. When evening approached, she would start hunting for a hotel, always finding one before the sun went down and early enough that she could buy dinner while the sun was still up. Privately, to himself, the Sergeant marveled at the young woman’s ability to find hotels with free breakfast. Once Amber purchased dinner for both of them, the pair would retire to her hotel room, Amber eating on the bed while Greg towed his meal into the bathroom, ensuring relatively easy clean up.

Afterwards, Amber turned on the TV, picking a channel at random and watching until she was ready to go to bed. In the morning, Greg moved from his hiding spot between the bed and the bathroom wall to the opposite side, taking time to groom and preen while Amber took a shower and headed off to the hotel breakfast. Once she’d eaten, she came back with a plate piled high with breakfast meat and packed while the gryphon ate. Once Greg was done, Amber escorted him to the truck, checked out, and the pair headed back to the highway to begin another day of travel.

Although there were a few further instances of men trying to hit on the traumatized young woman, Greg’s gryphon growl served admirably as male repellent, though the pleased, almost smug feeling of satisfaction never failed to confuse the Animagus. He was twenty years older than her, with three teenage kids, and he already _had_ a girlfriend.

* * * * *

It was about mid afternoon on the fourth day of travel when Greg, dozing in the truck bed, noticed that they’d gotten off the highway and hadn’t stopped for either gas or a rest stop. The sounds of high speed vehicles were replaced by the comfortable hum of cars going to and fro at the sedate speeds of city driving.

The gryphon tensed; if they were getting close to Amber’s home, then he needed to get going before they were so far into the city limits that he’d be breaking the Statute with every step. But to leap from a moving vehicle did not appeal and his innate good manners would not let him leave without farewelling Amber, so Parker stayed in his spot, wincing as the city noise grew louder.

The truck turned, bumping up into an unpaved lot before pulling to a stop. The engine noise died and Greg’s head perked up, hopeful that Amber would appear and explain where they were. It was too early in the day for them to be at a hotel and most hotels had _paved_ parking lots.

“Hey, big guy.”

Hazel met green, the gryphon letting out a soft **sque-er?** of inquiry.

Amber’s expression turned shy and she turned red around the edges as she shrugged. “Welcome to Kentucky, big guy.”

Kentucky? Furry, feathery ears pricked, the Sergeant’s head tilting sideways.

Somehow, she understood. “Yeah, Lexington, Kentucky. Home, sweet home.” Her smile was wistful. “Well, I guess technically it’s the farm, but we’re close.” Gingerly, she propped her elbows on the tail gate. “We close to your home, big guy?”

Sorrowful, Greg shook his head. He didn’t even have to check the links; he might be a Canadian, but he was familiar enough with the U.S. to know its rough geography and Kentucky was nowhere near the border, much less Toronto. He paused, reaching inwards, doing his best to judge the distance from his team. Mentally, he winced; he still had quite a ways to go before he’d be home.

He shifted, starting to rise, only to halt when Amber waved him back down. “Stay, please?” she pleaded. “I’ll get you another dinner at home, okay?”

After a long minute of consideration, Greg let his bulk back down and gave the young woman a nod of acceptance.

She beamed at him. “Be right back, big guy.”

Bemused, the Sergeant listened to Amber scamper away, her footsteps returning after several minutes. He heard her hop up into the truck, then the engine roared to life and they pulled out of the parking lot. To his surprise, the city noise faded as they headed back out of town.

* * * * *

The shadows were growing long when the truck pulled off the road and headed down a gravel driveway. Greg shifted, bracing himself as best he could without using claws or talons as the truck bounced and jostled over the uneven terrain. Beneath him, the truck thumped, though Amber slowed their pace enough to prevent further bouncing. After what seemed like hours, but was really only a few minutes, the truck came to a halt, drawing a silent sigh of relief from the gryphon.

The engine turned off, then Greg heard Amber’s footsteps on the gravel before she appeared at the back and lowered the tail gate. “Come on, big guy; come meet my folks.”

With an internal grumble at yet _another_ Statute of Secrecy breach, the gryphon slithered out from under the tarp and leapt down from the truck. Around them, he could see acres and acres of pastureland, the fencing drawing his eye to the large, comfortable farmhouse only a few meters away. Beyond the farmhouse, Greg could see paths that led to several barns and there were several observers in the pastures, all of them curious about the new arrivals.

Feathery, furry ears pricked in interest and surprise; Amber’s family owned a _horse farm_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. This Friday is _Christmas_. Now, honestly, any other year and I'd probably go for broke, posting both a chapter and the Christmas oneshot on the same day, but this year... *wince*
> 
> I'll be honest, I've re-written all of the material I lost when my hard drive crashed, but it took me a long time to do it, largely because I pinned my hopes on getting my stories back and so did not start reconstructing them until all hope was lost, a good two months after the hard drive crash. I'm way behind in writing, period, and I need to use my chapters and oneshots wisely, so you'll be seeing quite a few times where I mix my Side-Stories into the posting cycle rather than posting the stories all in one fell swoop.
> 
> So all of that to say that this Christmas, we'll have our Christmas oneshot and you'll get the final chapter of this story next week on Tuesday.
> 
> Merry Christmas, everyone!


	7. The Long Road Home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My parents flew home yesterday evening (and did arrive safely back in Chicago). After driving them to the airport, I invited myself to a pity party of one. I wish they could've stayed...but...
> 
> Alone again...naturally...
> 
> And it's only now that I realize... We forgot to ask a friendly stranger to take a Christmas picture of all of us...

Greg trailed after Amber as she led the way to the farmhouse. Although that wasn’t the best word for it; it was a beautiful building that looked as if it had come right out of a high class neighborhood. Now that he was moving away from the truck, Greg could see that the grounds were more than just pastureland; on the far side, he spied what looked like a small racetrack, complete with starting gate. Beyond, he could see other training areas, but the darkness hid the details.

“We raise Thoroughbreds,” Amber told him, a slight smile appearing when he looked up. “Most of them are racers, but we’ve had a few eventers, too.” The smile disappeared. “My ex wasn’t interested so I…I stopped training horses. I was never a jockey, but I’d exercise my horses sometimes and I usually drove them to the track.” Her glance back at the pickup truck was wistful. “Haven’t driven something that big in years. Just my Firebird.”

Parker regarded the young woman solemnly. She wasn’t as young as he’d thought or perhaps she’d just been through quite a bit in her lifetime. He did wonder how her ex-boyfriend had gotten her to abandon a home and a career she so clearly loved, but it wasn’t his place to ask, even if he could have.

Ahead of them, two people had come out of the farmhouse; Greg was surprised to see how much older the couple was. Although they were in good health, the man’s hair was almost white and the woman’s was gray. Both looked to be in their sixties, perhaps even early seventies, but Parker wasn’t quite sure how to judge more accurately – if they were in their seventies, it was a spry, active seventies.

The man ran to meet them, gathering up his daughter in a fierce hug. Amber grabbed him back and began to sob, letting out all the tension, all the fear, all the stress she’d been living with. “Daddy,” she managed around her tears. He just squeezed her tighter, eyes wet with what _could_ have happened.

Greg looked away as the moment stretched, Amber’s father not speaking, just stroking her hair. Amber’s mother moved down the steps, her expression twisted with conflicting emotions. Joy to have her daughter back, terror at what could have happened, and a strange shame. Perhaps an argument from when Amber had first left?

Whatever it was, it hardly mattered. Parker stepped forward, padded around the woman, and gently coaxed her to the family embrace. As soon as she was close, Amber flung an arm out and pulled her mother in. “Mommy!”

Part of Greg was embarrassed to have witnessed the tearful reunion, but he was also pleased. A family reunited – one good thing to come out of the whole mess. A part of him was also jealous, longing for his _own_ family reunion. Wishing for his home, even if he’d have to rebuild all his relationships from the bottom-up.

At length, the family huddle broke up and the elder man turned to the patient gryphon, one brow rising. His hands moved and Greg was abruptly caught off guard as his magic hummed, automatically translating the _sign language_ into English. Not audible – he simply _understood_.

‘So, this is your handsome rescuer, Amber?’

“Daddy!” Amber objected, her hands moving in time to her words. Greg wondered if that was for _his_ benefit or if it was simply how the family worked.

The deaf man chuckled, something about the sound telling Greg that, in all likelihood, the other man had been born able to hear, but had lost the ability at some point during his life. Curiosity niggled; could the other hear at all? The gryphon trill-purred greeting, disappointed at the lack of reaction.

“The big guy says ‘hi’, Dad,” Amber said out loud, hands flying. Glancing down at Greg, she added, “Sorry, big guy, Dad’s been deaf since I was little.”

Greg inclined his head in a regal fashion, earning matching smiles from father and daughter.

‘Come and eat, both of you,’ the mother ordered.

“Mom, out loud,” Amber pleaded. “Most people don’t know sign.”

‘Yes,’ her father agreed. A glimmer of mischief appeared. ‘I approve. You must not let this one get away.’

Greg flushed bright red underneath his feathers and Amber yelled, “Dad!”

The white-haired man chuckled, then gestured to the farmhouse. ‘Dinner is almost ready. Will your handsome rescuer join us?’

“He’d better,” Amber replied. “I don’t think the horses would enjoy it if he ate with them.”

She glanced down at Greg apologetically, but she was right. The last thing the Sergeant wanted was to scare a group of large, powerful, high-strung animals capable of kicking his head in.

* * * * *

Greg nibbled on one last bone – Amber’s father had apparently done some research and educated guessing, because his large – and very filling – meal had no fewer than two dozen bones of varying sizes and sources. Hunger stated, Parker’s gryphon side was more than ready for a nap, but he needed to get going. Go as far as he could while night held. So Greg pushed himself up and padded towards the farmhouse’s front door.

“Wait,” Amber said, drawing the gryphon’s head around. He stood where he was as the young woman came to his side and knelt to meet his eyes. “You’re going home, right?”

Parker nodded.

“It’s a really long way away, isn’t it?”

Another nod.

Amber bit her lip. “And…when you go home, your friends can help you get back to human?”

_I sure hope so._ For a third time, Greg nodded, refusing to let any doubt show. Giving up simply wasn’t an option.

“Do…do you have to go right now?” Amber asked wistfully.

Greg looked at her sharply, wondering if he had another case of transference to worry about. Even after days of traveling together, they still didn’t know each other. Especially since he couldn’t even _talk_. He nodded yet again, the movement almost curt and perfunctory.

“Okay,” she breathed. “Could you wait ten minutes? I promise I’ll be fast.”

The Sergeant considered, then moved to a corner and laid back down. Best to conserve as much energy as possible.

Amber beamed and his stomach made an odd lurch, totally ignoring his mental recitation: twenty years older, three kids, and he already _had_ a girlfriend. What in the world? He didn’t even _know_ this young woman – how could you know someone when all you’d done was save them from a serial killer and share a cross-country trip together?

“Thanks, I’ll be right back,” she said. Bemused and still wrestling with an unexpected – _unwelcome_ – attraction to her, Greg watched her hurry away. Futilely, he tried to ignore the part of his mind that was admiring how pretty she was and how easily she was managing to communicate with him despite his inability to speak.

* * * * *

Ten minutes later, Greg held still as Amber secured a black and green rubberized flash drive to his collar. The Sergeant was bemused by the action – did she really expect it would stay on? The bemusement faded as Amber used several lengths of yarn to ‘weave’ the flash drive onto the collar, fastening it so securely that Greg suspected it would have to be _cut_ off. Well, well, not nearly so foolish as he thought.

When she was done, Amber guided him to the farmhouse’s front door. “The horses are in the stables,” she told him. “So don’t worry about running into them, okay?”

Greg trill-purred acknowledgment.

Before opening the door, Amber crouched next to the gryphon and wrapped her arms around his neck in a hug. “Thank you. For everything,” she whispered. Then she straightened and pulled the door open. “Safe trip.”

Greg churred a farewell, then bounded through the door and out into the night. He paused long enough to focus in on the links, then turned unerringly towards Toronto. Putting his head down, he took his first steps on the long journey home.

* * * * *

Early on in his trek, Greg discovered that his tentative plans to avoid civilization were so futile as to be quite laughable. The United States was crisscrossed with roads, fields, tiny towns, and major cities. Had he still been in the mountains, he _might_ have had a chance, but he certainly didn’t now. The best he could do was to minimize the risks as much as possible and commit the rest to Providence. Hardly ideal, but what choice did he have?

With no map and no way to get directions, Greg was left with only his links as a reliable compass. Although he still couldn’t communicate via the links, his sense of _where_ his teammates were in relation to himself remained as strong and vivid as ever. For safety’s sake, as well as a token attempt to maintain the Statute of Secrecy, the officer only traveled at night, spending his days curled up sleeping in a protected location.

So it was that Parker maintained a steady clip towards Toronto, though, of necessity, he hunted as much as he could. The longer he could forestall his stomach’s inevitable complaints, the better. The Sergeant refused to even _consider_ poaching, which sharply limited his diet and deprived him of an easy source of food. Most nights, his catches were limited to rabbits, squirrels, and the occasional slow-moving bird. One night, he happened upon a coyote about to make a meal of someone’s pet dog; with a snarl and a flash of talons, the gryphon reversed the coyote’s fortunes, though he ended up having to chase the dog away so it would go home.

On the border of Kentucky and Ohio, Greg discovered one of the ways Americans decided on state borders. Namely – rivers. A river stretched before him, full of boats and tugs and barges and _people_. That didn’t even take into account the roads and towns that ran along the river. Parker spent one last day and night on the Kentucky side of the river, hunting and doing his best to judge the best time to fly across. Though his suspicions that there was no ‘best’ time to cross the river prove true, he did manage the feat in the wee hours of the morning. With an internal sigh of relief, Greg set out into the wilds of Ohio.

* * * * *

Columbus, Ohio proved to be Greg’s next major obstacle, though the gnawing sensation in his stomach hinted at another emerging problem. Ever since his river crossing, hunting had steadily grown more and more difficult as he did his best to skirt the towns and villages along his route. Firmly, the Sergeant set aside his stomach’s complaints. First he needed to find a way past the city in his path. Reluctantly, he detoured away from the links, heading north as he sought to work his way around the teaming mass of techie civilization in his way.

* * * * *

Just as he reached a point where he could angle away from the city and resume his trek to Toronto, the inevitable finally came to pass as his instincts and his stomach went to war with each other. His stomach wanted food – hunting had been extremely lean for the past two days – but his instincts were in revolt over the only available option. Dumpster diving. Even his ruthlessly pragmatic gryphon instincts were appalled at the idea of digging through rancid garbage for a bite to eat. He’d almost rather starve.

Unfortunately, the farther north he travelled, the fewer wild spaces he could find to hunt in and the more his ‘typical’ prey resided in neighborhoods, rather than fields and forests. Even when he _did_ catch food, small, infrequent prey wasn’t nearly enough to keep a large aerial predator in even halfway decent shape. Although Parker wasn’t flying any more than he had to, the constant travel was accomplishing much the same, demanding energy and resources he was fast running out of.

Which brought him back to a course of action that utterly _horrified_ him. Never, in all his life, even when he’d been drinking like a _fish_ , had he ever been in a position where eating garbage was an actual consideration. Worse, he’d delayed the inevitable for so long that he was having trouble putting one foot in front of the other. He no longer had a choice, not if he wanted to survive.

A minor stroke of luck had brought him to a row of dumpsters owned by a series of restaurants in a small, outdoor shopping strip. Even better, one or more specialized in meat, granting the carnivore his preferred dish. Not that this made the officer any happier with the situation.

With extraordinary reluctance, the gryphon leapt up on the first dumpster and started digging through it for food. It was uncovered and Greg soon realized why. No food to attract scavengers. Grimacing internally, he jumped down and headed along the line, scanning specifically for dumpsters with covers. Hmmm… _Secured_ covers.

It took another three dumpsters before he hit pay dirt. Meat. _Ribs_. When he spotted – and smelled – the top layer of overcooked baby back ribs, his hunger won the war and he set to work with a will, extracting every last bit of meat and bone he could reach.

* * * * *

Despite Greg’s best efforts – and wishes – he found himself scavenging for his meals more often than not. He _hated_ it, but his instinct to survive was more powerful than his human aversion to eating _trash_. Inwardly, he vowed to be more considerate towards the homeless when he finally got home. Right after he vowed to never tell his team about _this_ part of his misadventure.

As Sergeant traveled northeast, he kept following the invisible, intangible, but still real links to his team. To his inner sight, they pulsed, reassuring him that his teammates were all still alive and physically in good health. With no map and no way to communicate, the links became his compass, guiding him through the deepest, darkest night towards home.

He did his best to maintain a straight line towards Toronto, but the highways and towns in his path continued to force deviations. Nevertheless, the Sergeant maintained his pace and route, persistently battering his way through the continental United States. The gryphon flew over roads and highways, forded streams, and wound his way around every last obstacle along his route.

* * * * *

Cleveland, Ohio. Greg slunk away from the green highway sign, wishing, for the approximately one-billionth time, that he could transform. His legs ached, his talons and paws were starting to burn with constant pain, and _now_ he had to detour around a major American city. Mid-step, he froze. Blast. Double, no, _triple_ blast. Lake Erie. Even _without_ the Statute, there was no _way_ he could fly across the lake without ending up drowning. He simply didn’t have the endurance for a flight that long. Involuntarily, his wings slumped down. To walk around the lake would take days, forcing him to detour around beaches, towns, and the Border Patrol.

But what choice did he have? To give up was anathema, would leave his family and his team believing he was _dead_. What was his pain and exhaustion to that gnawing, tearing grief they were living with? How could he even _think_ of doing that to them – leaving them with no answers and no closure.

So once more the Sergeant lifted his head, settling his wings in place with a proud ruffle. He would not give up, he would not give in, he would not lose faith. No matter what it took, he _was_ going to find his way home, although, he reflected ruefully, at _this_ rate, the groveling would have to wait until he _could_ grovel. Already, he could feel the burn of muscles reaching their limit. The nonstop travel and toil were taking their toll and Greg had a suspicion that they were saving the butcher’s bill for when he finally stopped. Once he made it back to Toronto, he was probably going to be in for a world of pain.

* * * * *

Grim, the officer set aside the issues of Lake Erie and muscle fatigue. One problem at a time, thank you. He soon discovered that he was too close to Cleveland proper to avoid the suburbs without backtracking. Grimacing internally, Greg began to cautiously work his way through each small town, doing his best to navigate from forest preserve to forest preserve.

He knew he wasn’t avoiding all human contact; once he’d ended up in the _suburbs_ , it had become inevitable that he’d be spotted, even if only on someone’s security footage, but what else could he do? He had to get through and it wasn’t _his_ fault that he was trapped in his Animagus form. And so, frustrated, dejected, but still unwilling to let whoever had done this to him _win_ , the gryphon continued his journey, ignoring the growing ache and pain from his legs and feet. He could rest when he was home.

* * * * *

Once he was past Cleveland, it was both harder and easier. Easier, because he could simply follow the shore of Lake Erie and harder because he _knew_ home was across the lake. If he could only _fly_ across, he’d be home that much faster, but beyond his concerns about the Statute, there was still the concern that he’d get partway across, run out of steam, and end up drowning. He had a sudden vision of divers finding a gryphon skeleton, collar still wrapped around its neck, and speculating about how it’d gotten there. Mentally, he shuddered. No, much better and safer by far to walk, no matter how frustrating.

Though it was tempting to ‘hug’ the lakeshore, Parker knew better. There were bound to be public beaches and lakeside towns along his path. Instead, he located a major highway and put it between himself and the lake. Nor did he travel along the highway, opting to keep his distance, only staying close enough to the road so he could follow it. It didn’t guarantee he wouldn’t be seen, but the gryphon figured it gave him the best odds, which was about as good as he could get in the North-Eastern United States.

The strategy seemed to work, as the Sergeant managed to avoid most cars and trucks, only crossing the roads in his path when there was no vehicle traffic and, of course, continuing to travel only during the night. Though he did spy several towns beyond the highway, none of them appeared to be large and his nightly hunting netted him enough prey to survive, if not quite enough to keep his stomach full. Even better, he could tell he was starting to get close to home, the very thought enough to pick up aching feet and keep driving forward.

* * * * *

The Canadian gryphon crossed the border from Ohio to Pennsylvania and then the border from Pennsylvania to New York with very little fanfare, only aware of the crossings by dint of the highway signs he spied, large enough to read even from his distance. A few days into his New York trek found Greg sneaking closer to the highway to inspect the road signs. The links were beginning to angle more and more away from his route, but that blasted lake was still in his path! With the links at a near perpendicular angle, the Sergeant knew it was time to reassess and see if he could figure out a more direct route, if possible. What he wouldn’t give for a _map_.

Cautious, Greg located a highway underpass and snuck through, for the first time getting close to Lake Erie. He found an outcropping that appeared deserted and gazed out over the water, doing his best to judge the distance despite the nighttime hours. A mental frown emerged; his instincts – and, indeed, his better judgment – still regarded the distance as too far to risk it.

With a huff and sigh, Parker continued to follow the lake, opting to remain on the lake side of the highway instead of retreating. Caution was all well and good, but getting _home_ was the goal and he could do that better if he stayed close to the lake. As the sky began to lighten, Greg found another underpass below the highway and used it to get into a handy stretch of forest. He spent the remaining hours until dawn hunting, even managing to net an older deer. The gryphon ate his meal, then found another underpass to get back to Lake Erie. It was time to see what the distance looked like in the sunlight.

Greg’s daytime analysis concurred with his nighttime suspicions. Too far, even for a determined gryphon. Perhaps if he’d had more experience…but he didn’t and so, he was stuck. Dejected, he found a good hiding spot and curled up to sleep until sunset.

* * * * *

A new travel pattern emerged. The increasingly frustrated Animagus spent most of his nights on the Lake Erie side of the highway, almost constantly scanning the lake to see if he could spy the opposite shore. When the sky began to lighten, he snuck to the opposite side of the highway to hunt down a meal, more because he knew he needed the food than because he was truly hungry. Once he ate, he snuck back under the highway and found a place to watch for daylight. He remained awake long enough to confirm that he still couldn’t see the other side of Lake Erie, then located a sleeping spot for yet another day away from _home_.

* * * * *

Numb, Greg eyed the highway sign for an upcoming town called Lake View. Would this lake _never_ end? It had to end at _some_ point, he was sure, but as his links angled more and more to his rear, he was fast losing hope that he would ever find his way across the lake barring his path. Regardless, he could see the first rays of dawn in the distance. Time to track down his nightly meal and get ready for another day of sleeping.

Wings and tail sagging, the gryphon hunted down several rabbits and a few squirrels, the meat almost dry and tasteless in his numb depression. He knew he should care more that his stomach was starting to stop hurting, but he just couldn’t muster the energy. Not with no end in sight to his trek and his links growing more distant with each step. He needed his family, but it was growing more and more likely that he’d never see them again.

Done with his meal, Greg snuck back under the highway and found a handy overlook. One quick check of the lake in the daylight, then off to bed for him. He lay down, waiting for the sun to rise as he huffed a sigh, watching the water with dull hazel eyes. Light reached down, radiating dappled patterns across the water, but the depressed gryphon had long grown used to the dawn light show. Not a feather twitched as he waited for the sun to gain enough height that he could see nothing but water in the distance.

As the sun continued to rise, Parker allowed himself to doze off. What was the use? He was never going to get around this lake, so why bother continuing to try? Maybe he should’ve just stayed in Kentucky. Not home, but at least Amber and her family would’ve been familiar. He could’ve learned how to make do – and maybe they could’ve helped him. Not that he could go back _now_ ; he’d come too far and had little to no idea of what route would lead him back to Lexington, Kentucky.

Light reflected off of something in the distance and the gryphon grumbled to himself, shifting to avoid the gleam hitting his eyes. Annoyed, he scanned the water, hoping to spot whatever had been inconsiderate enough to reflect into his sensitive eyes. Oh, that lousy lighthouse, off in the distance and hardly visible. With a low, unhappy growl, Greg picked himself up to find another place to sleep.

He began to pad away, a tickle of something at the back of his mind. Why would a lighthouse be off in the distance? Shouldn’t it have been on a _shore_ somewhere close by? Why would a lighthouse be in the middle of the water? Abruptly, he froze, head snapping back around to focus in on the lighthouse. Wings straightened and the gryphon arched his neck, tilting his head to inspect the faraway building. Sunlight was reflecting off the windows of the upper room – a lantern room? Hope surged to life, burning like a fire within the gryphon. If he could _just_ make it across the lake, then _maybe_ he could still reach home. Determination followed the hope and Parker turned back, padding to the edge of the outlook so he could examine every last _centimeter_ of visible shoreline.

* * * * *

Night sounds murmured around the gryphon as he silently girded himself for his first ever _night_ flight. It was one thing to fly over a road or highway for a minute, perhaps two, but this adventure would stretch him to his limits. Not the best of ideas when he was already near his physical limits, but his _need_ to go home was overriding his common sense. No, he would not, _could_ not back down. Not this time.

He would’ve felt better if he could’ve seen the lighthouse’s sweeping glow, off in the distance, but apparently the building was long closed. Blast; he’d have to just make an estimate to where the lighthouse was. Or perhaps he could let the links guide him. A risk, but so was this whole endeavour. Greg closed his eyes and allowed a silent plea to wing skywards.

_Please. Let this work; I want to go_ home _._

He waited a minute, listening to the wind and the creaks of nighttime, then he crouched and flung himself upwards, wings stretching out to carry him skyward. Instinct drew his talons and legs back, aligning with an invisible line that seemed to cut through his body. The gryphon’s wings beat steadily, carrying him higher in the night sky, and Greg realized that his limbs’ instinctive positions were reducing the drag of his own body, granting him greater aerodynamics than his lion side had naturally.

As he flew out over the lake, his wings continued to pound against the wind, hauling him skyward and battling against gravity’s natural pull. He allowed a low determined hiss; he’d come too far to fail now. In the depths of his mind, the Sergeant pulled his links to the fore, then silently handed flight control off to his gryphon side – _he_ was no flyer, but the gryphon _was_. Best to let the expert handle things, particularly with his life on the line.

Parker’s wild side graciously accepted the hand-off, adjusting his wings enough to start gliding on a handy thermal. As night deepened around him, Greg observed in amazement as his gryphon instincts worked them from thermal to thermal, catching the wind wherever it could and gliding as much as possible to conserve strength and energy. Though the Sergeant choked back panic when one thermal carried them up into the clouds, his gryphon side maintained steady flight, carrying them through the pitch black safely to open air.

As time passed, Greg began to enjoy the feel of the wind through his wings, brushing back his fur and cooling working muscles. Below him, the water drifted and he listened to the movement of the waves, so similar to what he was used to in Toronto, yet much different now that he was well away from shore. Ahead of him, he thought he saw the opposite shore, but the night hid the trees and the lighthouse from easy view, limiting his navigation to instinct and the links shining within his heart, calling him home with every determined stroke of his wings.

_I’m coming, guys, I promise. I won’t give up, I_ won’t _._

The silence around him ached, but he refused to let it dishearten him. He could make it and he _would_ make it, no matter what. Once he was on the other side, he would finally be back in Canada and he knew the terrain around Toronto well enough to make an educated guess about where he would be in relation to home. The land bridge between Lake Erie and Lake Ontario, very close to Niagara Falls, though his route wouldn’t bring him close to that famous landmark. Or, at least, he didn’t _think_ it would. Mentally, he tried to chart his most likely route; it would be by land, he knew…too much city buildup around Lake Ontario to risk flying into the heart of Toronto. Perhaps if he skirted Hamilton?

Plotting and planning occupied his time until he finally drew close enough to the shoreline to see the trees, darkness or no darkness. Grateful, he angled downwards; he was _not_ used to flying for such a long time. A few minutes later, he landed heavily in the midst of what he _hoped_ was a forest, nearly collapsing as his feet touched _terra firma_ for the first time in hours. His feet throbbed, his wings throbbed, and his entire body ached from exertion. Slowly, the Sergeant limped back to a standing position. He needed to find food – and then he could sleep.

* * * * *

Days later, the gryphon dragged himself to a tiny overlook and finally gazed towards Toronto. The roads and spires of his hometown dominated the skyline, lifting a heart aching and burdened by delay after delay and hurting right down to his bones after everything he’d been through.

Greg allowed himself to enjoy the view for a minute, then limped forward to start the last leg of his journey. He ignored the pain of talons worn down almost to their nubs and the trail of blood coming from his rear paws. Once he was truly home, once he found his team, then he could stop. And he had to hurry; the links were beginning to dim, as though his absence was affecting his teammates’ health.

_I’m coming, guys. I’m almost there, I promise._

Pausing, the gryphon glanced behind him, imagining the play and stretch of roads and trails behind him. Imagining every stage of the long road that had led him here, to this lonely outcropping over Toronto. Then he faced forward once more and forced himself into motion.

It was time for the lost son to come home.

_~ Fin_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, it's been quite the journey for both Greg _and_ Team One over these past few stories, so thanks for sticking with me. As always, I adore comments and do my best to respond to each one of them.
> 
> In the meantime, we'll be greeting the New Year in _style_ as we kick off "The OMAC Project" on Friday, January 1st 2021. Please note that although I posted a Christmas oneshot (One Last Christmas), I will not be posting a New Year's oneshot this year.
> 
> Therefore, Merry Christmas (one last time), Happy New Year, and See You on the Battlefield!

**Author's Note:**

> Surprise! You may now yell at me for my cruel, cruel trick of making you think Greg actually _died_. *devilish author grin*
> 
> Now, just to be all official, chronologically speaking, this story comes right after "Face/Off", not "When In Rome", but for my It's a Magical Flashpoint Collection, I will keep it after "When In Rome" for important storyline reasons.
> 
> Also, please remember that any flames will be fed to my Death Knight Tinuvial's Netherwing Drake mount. *wink*
> 
> Happy Reading...


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